What Comes Around
by ladyofdarkstar
Summary: After the last human financial advisor to NEST left cursing Ratchet's name, the last thing the Autobot expected was to like the replacement. Inspired by "If an Autobot, do NOT do the following" and written with permission of the author. Reviews are love!
1. Chapter 1 Arrival

A/N: This is my first fanfic for Transformers. Please forgive me if I got anything wrong.

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"What's Rachet up to?" Epps asked.

Captain Wil Lennox paused, looking up from the schematics in his hands. The latest designs for the NEST security system had just been delivered, and while he was still rusty with his Cybertronian, he had to admit that he liked what he saw. Well, save for the few symbols he couldn't quite figure out on his own. A conversation with Optimus or Prowl would clear up any confusion, he was certain. Just so long as the symbols had nothing to do with Wheeljack and an "experimental security component," he was fairly certain he could live with the changes.

The budget committee, on the other hand, might not like it so much. And speaking of pain-in-the-ass committee members…

Lennox eyed the towering yellow and black Autobot as he stood in the open doorway of the massive cargo bay doors. His hands were balled into fists the size of Buicks, planted heavily on his hips. Though no weapons were presently visible, he still gave the impression that he was armed to do battle. Even Ironhide had found an excuse to do something inside the main hangar rather than risk walking in front of the imposing medical officer.

"We're getting a new government liaison today," Lennox commented.

"Oh, we are—wait," Epps cut in, eyes going slightly wide. "What does that have to do with Rachet?"

"Well, remember the last guy that was here?"

"What, the pencilneck that Rachet almost flattened, regardless of his oaths about respecting all life? The government isn't stupid enough to send him back, I hope. We're still digging parts of his car out of the pavement."

Lennox laughed, remembering how Wheeljack and Ultra Magnus had captured a live Decepticon anti-seeker explosive containment device, and then somehow, in the course of trying to disarm the thing, had set it off. Thankfully the two had managed to hurl the thing out harm's way. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on which Autobot or NEST member you asked—it had landed on the liaison's car.

And then it exploded.

The liaison, one Mr. Jeffery Anders, had just come from slashing Rachet's budget once again. His parting shot to the mech had been a brave and arrogant "Use duct tape for repairs. I don't care. Just get the numbers down." When he had screamed about the destruction of his car, Rachet had very calmly told him to "use duct tape" to put it back together.

The liaison in question had sent a claim ticket to NEST for the cost of the car. Lennox, himself, and Optimus Prime had gleefully denied the claim, citing that: a) the car had been parked in an illegal area to begin with (a fine of up to three hundred and three dollars), b) an additional bill of forty thousand dollars due to the fact that they just couldn't pave over the crater considering the car had been present. EPA and Environmental laws required safe removal, cleaning and certification of all car parts, fluids and the like before paving could take place. And, finally, c) a bill from Rachet for twelve thousand dollars for time and the expense of cleaning up car parts so as to not puncture or damage Autobot tires.

NEST had not heard a word from that liaison since the issuance of the bills, or from the liaison department in general, up until two days ago. When they were told to expect the replacement.

"I don't think that guy's coming back," Lennox assured his second-in-command. "However, we have to give the new guy a warm welcome."

"I think Rachet's got that end all worked out," Epps replied, a touch of pity worming its way into his voice. "That mech looks like he's ready to chew the head off of Megatron if given the chance. I really feel for the new guy."

~*~

The car was cherry red, sleek, small, and purred like a jungle cat when it hugged the turns in the road, which somewhat surprised Rachet. He'd been expecting another colossal waste of machinery that these government bureaucrats like to call automobiles. In his experience, the higher a human moved in the chain of command, the larger and more useless a vehicle they chose. The last one had been no exception to the rule. That Mercedes had been all flash and comfort, but it had had less power and protection than a day-old sparkling.

But this… this was a pleasant surprise, indeed. The 1964 Porsche 911 came to a smooth halt just inside the designated parking area. It seemed almost a crime to hear the engine go offline as the driver pulled the key from the ignition. Black windows, tinted so dark even his powerful optics had issues piercing, mostly obscured the driver from view. He caught the shifting of the form inside, the grabbing of what he could only assume was a slick briefcase, and his processor immediately set for maximum stubbornness.

He hated the sight of a briefcase now, knowing that what was contained within those cow-skin covered bags was never good news. At least, never for him. He stood his ground, fought the desire to simply scream "go home, you black-blooded creature, I don't want anything to do with the likes of you!" but held that one in check. There would be plenty of time to hurl insults at the human once he was inside the building.

Then he could claim the human started it first. While that was petty, even to his thinking, it would at least shave off a touch of Optimus's annoyance over such an exchange between his chief medical officer and the liaison from his host government.

The door of the Porsche opened, and Rachet's optics started that slow fade from blue to red…

… and then back to blue in a flash as the red alligator Manolo pump—the same red as the Porsche—touched down with a light click onto the hot asphalt. A second pump joined the first, and Rachet found his optics traveling up a pair of lean, tan, and shapely legs. The human in question stood, dressed in a pinstripe pencil skirt and a matching tight vest. Beneath was a white dress shirt, modestly buttoned down to the wrists and up to the throat. A bright red tie matched the shoes… and also the nails on her hands, apparently. Her jet black hair was pulled up and away from her face in what was called a French twist, her eyes hidden behind red sunglasses.

He couldn't make out her expression behind those dark glasses, but it didn't take a military veteran to tell that she was sizing him up in probably the same manner as he had done to her.

"You must be Rachet," the human said, her red lips—-again, the same shade as everything else—-curving in a mischievous smile. "I'm Lydia DeMarco, the new and hopefully last liaison to the NEST project for a long time."

It took him a couple of seconds for his processor to switch gears. He had expected yet another middle-aged, balding human with a paunch who probably lacked the spine to look at a weapon, nevertheless listen to an explanation about repairing one. The American government seemed to have an endless supply of those to go with the useless cars and the standard black-and-white suits they wore. He hadn't expected a young, physically fit and attractive woman. One who apparently liked colors other than silver, black and white.

He caught himself before he started to scan her without her permission. "Yes," he said, trying for the clipped and stern tone in which he was famous. Even to his own receptors, it sounded like a poor imitation. "I'm Rachet, and I'm only going to say this once. I will NOT use duct tape to fix my brethren, regardless of what your budget committee says."

"Wonderful," she replied, her smile widening as she clicked forward on those eye-catching shoes. "Then we're in agreement on one thing at least. I hate duct tape. Not only does it look tacky as all hell, it isn't the miracle worker most make it out to be. Now, would you be so kind as to point out Captain Lennox? I would very much like to get the tedious security protocols out of the way."

Again, he found his processor grinding to a halt at the unexpected reply, and wordlessly he watched the human female click her way into the base.


	2. Chapter 2 Confrontation

A/N: Thanks to everyone who took the time to review. It was very encouraging!

I do not own the Transformers, nor have the money or resources to make any kind of claim. Please don't sue. This is just for fun.

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It was Ironhide that found them, and the big mech rolled cannons forward silently, his optics narrowing.

Skids and Mudflap, the wonder twins of trouble as the humans had taken to calling them, were stacked on top of each other on hands and knees. Carefully, they peered around the corner and down the hall that lead to Rachet's medbay. That wasn't what made Ironhide hesitate, though. It wasn't even the fact that the twins were stacked on _top_ of Bumble Bee, who incidentally was also on his hands and knees, also scanning carefully around the corner.

The three of them looked like some kind of wacky Autobot totem pole, and Ironhide had to fight back the impulse to send a non-lethal sonic burst at the three of them. Just something to knock them down like human bowling pins without causing too much damage. It might even knock some sense into their processors, if that, by Primus, was possible.

Instead, the black-armored mech slowly crept up until he was right behind them. It was then that he noticed the slight vibration in the floor… and that the vibration was coming from the three stack-dolled mechs. It made him hesitate in giving all three a good swift kick in the aft. The three were shaking and trembling so much that armor plates audibly clacked together. Imitating the human gesture of quaking in terror.

"You three gear-heads better have a good reason for this," Ironhide growled menacingly.

Skids yelped in surprise like a human child, his hands slipping on Mudflap's back. It caused him to slam into Mudflap, who also yelped as he slammed into Bumble Bee. Bee flattened to the ground under the weight of the twins with a groan that, if his vocal processors had been working, probably wouldn't have been unrepeatable in polite company. Ironhide chuckled, rolling his cannons back to standby.

"Ssssh!" Skids hissed at him frantically, shoving upright, which in turn forced his twin's head into Bumble Bee's back. "Are you crazy? Don't get their attention!"

"Who's attention?"

"Rachet's," came Mudflap's muffled reply, his face still buried in Bee's spinal support structure. "He's escortin' the pretty lady ta her new office--"

The rest of his words were lost as Bee had finally had enough, engaged his thrusters, and tossed the twins off his back. Ironhide offered the younger mech a hand up, keeping a wary eye on the twins. "What pretty lady?"

"The new budget liaison," Skids supplied, grinning as Bee nodded vigorously, his hands moving in an hour-glass shape motion, one they knew humans used to indicate a pleasing female's shape. He even supplied a wolf-whistle to go with the gesture. "She's smokin' hot, 'Hide."

"And that had you three trembling like leaves?"

Immediately the twins became somber, and Bee's combat mask came down as he looked carefully back around the corner. The three lowered their vocal tones in a rather nice intimation of a human stage whisper. "Captain Lennox says that his sparkmate, Sarah, is smokin' hot, too, right?" Skids asked.

"Right…" Ironhide replied, his tone starting to drop into irritation again. Everyone knew just how protective the weapons expert was of the Lennox family. One treaded carefully when bringing up the topic with him. "And this is important, why?"

"Captain Lennox says that the female humans can be five times as scary as the male ones, 'specially the smokin' hot ones," Mudflap interrupted hurriedly, having no desire to be turned into scrap by the larger mech. "If that's true, then we've a deadly situation on our hands. That liaison is smokin' hot. Ratchet don't like no liaisons, and Rachet's got a temper, too."

Everyone fell silent as the implications of that last statement sank in. One wrong word from either Ratchet or the human could potentially start a fight of epic proportions. Ironhide eyed the hall to med bay with an all new perspective, especially in light of the fact that he was standing in full view of it. The cannons slowly rolled forward again, and he eased himself flat against the wall, opposite Bee. A second later, the twins were back on top of Bee's back, and four slightly trembling mechs peeked around the corner as if expecting five Decepticons to come flying at them at any moment.

"I bet ya a full shift of salvage work that Rachet's goin' ta be the first ta throw somethin' in under twelve minutes," Skids whispered.

"I'll take that bet," both Bee and Ironhide said in unison… and settled down to wait.

~*~*~

"Aww, isn't that thoughtful," Lydia said warmly, a grin on her lips. "An office with a view. You shouldn't have, really."

Ratchet stared down at the human incredulously. Something had to be wrong with her speech processing components. "An office with a view?"

Lydia waved a hand upwards towards the raised platform about a story and a half high. On it sat a single desk that looked like it had seen its glory days back during WWII, a phone that looked older than that, and probably what had been the very first Apple II computer to ever roll off the assembly line in the early 1980s. A metal ladder had been welded haphazardly to the platform, and wires for the various computer and phone lines wrapped around one leg of the ladder before dropping into a hole in the concrete floor. Duct tape had been used to secure the wires.

"This is the best option for the least about of money," Prowl put in, his tone peppered with more than a little sarcasm, moving up to join the conversation. "Given the sacrifices we all must make to ensure peace and prosperity to both races."

Lydia actually laughed, and as far as Ratchet could tell, it wasn't in hysterics or in self-depression. It was genuine laughter, as if she could appreciate the statement the Autobots were trying to make. If they had to sacrifice on things like parts, energy, weaponry, etc. then the paper-pushing, tight-fisted humans could sacrifice on things like office space, walls, a decent floor system…

"I see I've got my work cut out for me," she said, lowering her sunglasses to gaze up at Prowl. "I take it that Anders gave you that speech about 'lowering costs for prosperity' more than once."

"That is correct," he replied aloud carefully, exchanging a glance with Ratchet and activating his internal comm. _"Is there something wrong with this female?"_

"_I've been asking myself that question since she got here."_

"_She seems to have a good sense of humor,"_ Prowl continued, watching as Lydia shook her head from side to side and pulled a PDA from some hidden pocket in her outfit. _"Which is better than the last two liaisons—who had none. Do you think we can trust her?"_

"_I'm reserving judgment until our first discussion about money."_

They ended their internal conversation when Lydia let out a low whistle. "I can see why the… ummm… office space looks the way it does. There isn't much in the budget for anything unnecessary."

"There isn't much in the budget for anything _necessary, _either," Ratchet began, eyes once more starting to flow from sapphire to scarlet.

And there it was, the fight he had been expecting. Somehow he had known that the seemingly cooperative attitude of this human had to be a ruse. In just a moment she was going to start complaining about her new office space, start to say that she just had to slash the budget again to get herself a cushy little office while he would be reduced to using sub-standard tools to repair—

"Tell you what," Lydia put in, cutting through the mental tirade building in his processors. She lowered the PDA in her hands, pursed her lips thoughtfully as she made a slow turn around the area. "If you can allocate a space for me, say 20 feet by 20 feet square, I think I can handle the rest."

"Handle the rest of what?" Prowl asked.

"The building of my new office."

That was it. "I just knew it," Ratchet muttered bitterly, one hand balling into a fist again. "We all have to do what we can to save on costs. This is all we could afford to allocate for human office space. You must consider the fact that our forms are immensely larger than your human bodies. We have designed this space specifically to accommodate the comfort of both humans and Autobots."

"And I appreciate that greatly," she replied, tilting her head slightly to the side as she regarded him. "Which is why I intend to imitate the current design into the new one."

"And where do you propose to come up with this funding?" Ratchet snapped, feeling his circuits start to heat up. So much so that Prowl actually shifted to the side, taking up a defensive stance next to the human liaison.

Lydia shrugged. "I'll self-fund it."

"That's typical," Ratchet snapped. "Dig funding out of—what? What did you say?"

The human's face twisted in a quizzical expression for a moment, and then smoothed out as understanding filled her eyes. "Ah, I see," she said darkly, crossing her arms over her chest. "You expected me to come in here and turn the place upside down. Maybe take away from your funding to suit my own purposes? Now _that_ is typical."

Ratchet blinked, sharing a similar look of surprise with Prowl before staring back down at the human. "Is it?"

Lydia gave a lady-like snort. "It is. You think that just because I'm a woman, one with the power to do as she pleases, that I'm going to ignore the needs of those around me. Well, Autobot Ratchet, I'm very pleased to tell you that you're absolutely wrong. If and when I have to make cuts in the budget, we'll discuss it in detail."

Her tone dropped to a couple of degrees above freezing, and she took a step forward. "And when I mean detail, I mean I can be every bit as stubborn, hotheaded and frustrating as your reputation made you out to be. However, unlike you, I came into this job with no pre-conceived notions. And just so we're clear, if you attempt to make my life here a living hell, I'm going to return the favor five-fold. I happen to care about Project NEST a great deal, so much so that I've sunk a huge chunk of my personal time and energy in it to ensure its survival. I intend to do so again with the construction of an Autobot-friendly office. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some calls to make and some construction designs to complete."

For the second time that day, she left two sets of blue optics staring wide-eyed at her in silence.

~*~*~*~

They knew someone was coming the moment Bee started playing "The Imperial March" from Star Wars. But instead of a seven-foot black-clad Darth Vader, a slender human female exited the hallway. She spared not a glance for the four Autobots as she headed towards Captain Lennox's office. Ironhide, Bee, Mudflap and Skids all stared after her, and then in unison made a break down the hall towards the Med Lab.

"_How many pieces do you think the Med Lab will be in?" _Skids asked over the internal comm..

Bumble Bee's response was the sound of a nuclear explosion_._

"_Total destruction? Really?" _Mudflap asked._ "Not a hair was out of place on that femme."_

"_I agree with Bee," _Ironhide replied._ "It was too quiet for too long. Not to mention that human looked ready to spit cannon fire."_

Ironhide lead the way into the main part of the lab, cannons powered before he crossed the threshold. "Everything alright?"

"Yes. No." This, from Prowl.

"Wanna try that explanation again?" Skids asked, peaking around Ironhide with wide optics.

Not a tool was out of place. Not a new scratch on the walls. Everything was in its proper place. Skids tried not to let his disappointment show.

"I think the human shorted out Ratchet's vocal processors," Prowl said, a bemused tone in his voice. He quickly sidestepped out of Ratchet's reach just to be on the safe side. "She left him speechless… again."

"Not speechless," Ratchet retorted, staring down the hallway with a thoughtful expression. "I'm trying to decide."

"Decide what?" Mudflap asked.

"If I really hate, or really like that human."

Prowl chuckled. "My money's on like. You have to admit she had a point."

"What point?" Skids asked.

"I have to admit nothing," Ratchet snapped, his optics focusing on the four new Autobots in the room. "And what are you four doing here, anyway? Why are your cannons primed, Ironhide?"

Four Autobots all exchanged looks ranging between fear, horror, and the thought of what would happen if they informed Ratchet about their standing bet. Just as quickly, four Autobots muttered excuses and ran for their sparks.


	3. Chapter 3 Truce

He'd been avoiding her, which wasn't out of the ordinary for him, all things considered. It was Ratchet's normal mode of operation to stay out of any section of NEST where the budget liaison could be found. Mostly it was his own decision, he reminded himself. He, Optimus Prime, and Prowl had decided that it was better for everyone involved if the medical officer found something else to do in some other part of the base when the liaison strolled in… unless another mech of equal strength and power to Ratchet was present. The last incident with Anders had turned the idea into a "suggestion."

Prowl hadn't exactly made a rule out of it; however Ratchet could always see the idea floating in the other mech's optics. Respect for each other, and for the many hardships in particular that coexisting with the humans presented for Ratchet, kept the "suggestion" from becoming a hard and fast rule. Out of all the Autobots, save for maybe Optimus Prime, Ratchet was having the worst time dealing with the so-called bureaucratic red tape. His job directly impacted almost every level of it, and more than once he demanded to see this "red tape" that bound the human's actions so he could personally melt the crap into slag.

"Red tape," he growled to himself. "Tape is something flexible and easy to remove. They should call it red steel. Welded red steel a mile thick if they want to be accurate."

"I find that humans rarely state what is purely accurate or obvious," Optimus said, moving over to join his friend. "The reasons for the deceptions vary, ranging from fear of reprisal down to a genuine concern for the other person's feelings."

"I find it hard to believe all humans have feelings, or even the ability to feel anything for each other in any capacity," Ratchet said. "Sam, Mikaela, and the core members of NEST being the exception."

Optimus nodded in agreement. "They would say the same about us, given our history. Still, as I have said, they are a young race. Given time, they may grow beyond what they are now."

"You have that kind of faith in them?" Ratchet asked, staring down the hallway in front of him.

"So do you," The other said bluntly, but kindly. "Which is why you have been avoiding Lydia."

Ratchet stiffened, his processors automatically searching out any and all ways to deflect this conversation. And as each option presented itself, he discarded it. Optimus would know the truth, no matter what he said. There was little doubt in Ratchet that Optimus had heard about the altercation a week ago between himself and Lydia. This was probably his way of gently reminding Ratchet of the importance of getting along with their human allies. However, Optimus would also allow him to change the topic if he so wished without a question. The Prime had said what he had come to say, and browbeating Ratchet until he acquiesced would only drive a wedge between them. Their friendship had never been built on such things. Ratchet wasn't about to add it in now.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to those that know you," Optimus smiled slightly, and joined Ratchet in staring down the hall that led to Lydia's new office. "She is different from any other human we have worked with in the past. The others are with us after being caught in the middle of the war. Lydia has come to us out of her own free will, knowing the dangers and the headaches involved."

"That is why she bothers me so much," Ratchet confessed. "I cannot figure out her motives. There's something more to her than just a willingness to help."

"I've sensed the same thing, old friend. In time, that purpose will reveal itself. Until that time, I am willing to trust her until she proves that trust is unfounded."

Ratchet turned that last statement over and over in his processors before finally accepting it. His leader was right. "I suppose it wouldn't kill me to check in on her," he said length.

This time Optimus was wise enough to suppress the smile before it formed on his mouth plates. "A good idea," he replied. "It would be remiss of you in your duties if you did not personally ensure that her office provided comfort and care to Autobots. An inspection would not be out of the ordinary."

Ratchet's eyes glowed brighter for a moment, his shoulders straightening. "Indeed," he said, pleased and thankful all at once that his leader had provided the perfect excuse for the visit.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Do the bumper at least," Skids said. "Paint it green or something."

"No way, man," Mudflap countered. "I like the bumper. It's kinda cool in a classic way."

"The whole car is cool in a classic way," retorted Arcee, her voice almost wistful. "I'm tempted to scan it, myself. It's a thing of beauty."

The five of them—Ironhide, Mudflap, Skids, Arcee, and Chromia—had come outside to render what they liked to call 'sweet justice' on the vehicle of one Lydia DeMarco, Government Budget Liaison to NEST. Ever since Optimus had confessed to painting one particularly annoying liaison's car white and black (al la Herbie the Lovebug), it had become a sort of contest among the Autobots to see who could come up with the best prank. So far Ultra Magnus and Wheeljack jointly held the record with the destruction of Mr. Anders's Mercedes.

While the incident in question had been officially ruled an unfortunate accident due to the emergency nature of the explosion, Ultra Magnus and Wheeljack had been secretly heralded as a heroes for months. And, consequently, no one really believed that Optimus had painted the other car, himself. He was covering for someone, they were all certain, and that fact just made them love him all the more.

"If anyone's scanning this thing, it's me. I call dibs," Chromia put in, going down on hands and knees to check the undercarriage of the sassy red Porsche 911.

Ironhide paused, optics narrowing. "What is a 'dib' and why would calling one aid you in scanning this car?"

Chromia shrugged, secretly loving that one particular human gesture. It could convey so much and so little at the same time. She'd seen humans use it to express mystery, confusion, seduction… She had started using it on her fellow Autobots and felt a thrill of mischievous joy as they all sought to find out the meaning behind her action. Shrugging was the one mannerism she planned to hold onto for the rest of her existence, no matter what world she lived on.

"I have no idea," Chromia admitted. "But some humans call a 'dib' when attempting to establish an order of claim on a particular object. So, I reiterate. I call the dib on this car if scanning becomes an option."

"How about the tires?" Skids tried again, joining Chromia on the ground. "Over-inflate them like balloons."

"That only works in the Bugs Bunny cartoons," Mudflap slapped his twin on the back of the head. "Over-inflate the tires and they may explode and damage the paint. That would be a crime."

"Well, we have to do something," Arcee said, hands on her hips. "This _is _the liaison's car. We've got a tradition going now. Each liaison that annoys Ratchet gets pranked. End of list."

"Are we so sure she annoys him?" Ironhide asked, setting down the two ten-gallon buckets of lime-green paint and staring at Lydia's car thoughtfully.

"He's doing the usual avoid-the-human trick like always," Skids pointed out.

"But he hasn't thrown a wrench in the whole week that she's been here," Arcee added. "You have to admit that that is odd for him. Especially when annoyed."

"You think he's sick?" Mudflap asked.

"I think _you're_ sick," Skids interjected, rolling his optics in disgust. "Paint a classic bumper like that green. You need to have your processors checked."

"Oh yeah? Well, check this!" Mudflap's fist connected with Skids head, sending the other mech flying back a good twenty feet. "Does that need to be checked?"

No one flinched in the slightest as Skids came up off the ground in a rush, tackling his twin to the pavement. As the two battled back and forth, hurling insults in both English and Cybertronian, Ironhide, Arcee, and Chromia continued to contemplate Lydia's car. There _had_ to be something they could do without destroying the automobile. They were certain of that fact. They just had to find out what it was…

~*~*~*~*~*~

"I think I'll take it as an extreme complement that I can render you speechless every time I see you," Lydia commented dryly, leaning in the window of her office, a lopsided grin on her lips.

Ratchet tore his gaze away from the "office" long enough to focus on the human. It was easier than normal, and he had to admit that he liked that. She was almost eye-level with him, leaning in the frame of a 10 foot by 10 foot "window." The so-called window was nothing more than a half-sized wall, complete with a railing in order to keep the human from leaning over and falling out. Behind that railing was a nicely appointed office, complete with all the modern electronics.

Ratchet took a step back, taking in the entire structure from ground up. The bottom twenty foot by twenty foot cube was an enclosed room that housed a small bedroom and bathroom, a tiny mini-kitchenette. Prowl had put out the ruling that the lower story of Lydia's office was considering off limits to any kind of visitation, scanning, cameras, or other kind of invasion without Lydia's expressed permission. That went for Autobot and human alike. When Lydia was in that area, they were to act as if she wasn't in the base at all.

But that wasn't what intrigued Ratchet so much. It was the design of the upper story that pleased him. Only three walls went straight up to the ceiling, the fourth wall being the one that held the "window." Arranged behind that window were a series of large tables, each clearly marked in both English and Cybertronian with words like "Expenses" "Assets" "Destroyed Items" and "Invoices." The tables were within easy reach of even the smallest Autobot, and yet one as tall as Optimus did not have to go down on all fours in order to hand in a report. They could simply reach over the ledge and drop the report on the appropriately labeled table.

"Impressive," he said and meant it.

"It is, isn't it?" Lydia's smile grew a bit more. "The bill was equally impressive, too. But, much like my Porsche, it was all worth it."

He looked back up at her, noted the slight defensiveness in her body even with the ease of conversation in her voice. Ice was still there in her tone, a frost in her eyes that belied the truth of her emotions. She was still ticked at him, and he honestly couldn't blame her. Yet she was still making an effort to establish some kind of friendly relationship. That impressed him more than the office building.

"I owe you an apology," he found himself saying.

That thawed some of the ice from her eyes. Two-toned eyes, he noticed, realizing that this was the first time he'd seen her without her ever-present sunglasses. One was the color of good, deep green leaves, the other the deep blue of the upper atmosphere of the planet. Again, he found himself itching to scan her, and again he pushed that desire aside.

Lydia shrugged. "I suppose I owe you one as well. It was unbecoming of me to snap like that. You hit a severe button with me."

"And you with me," he said, tilting his head slightly to the side. "This hasn't been an easy transition for either of our kind. I should have exercised more patience."

The lopsided grin became a wide smile. "Oh, I think you did pretty well. I have my own reputation for being stubborn and quick with a temper. My commanding officers always told me that those two qualities made me one hell of a soldier, but one horrible commander."

His optics zoomed in on her once more, scanning her face and trying to match it with the military records in his databanks. It took less than a second for him to find the record, and even less than that to realize he did not have access to the full file. It was barred, locked behind a password and stamped with a huge TOP SECRET CLEARANCE in red bold letters.

He was seriously beginning to hate any word that was printed in the color red. It went right up there with his hatred of red tape.

"You are military?"

"Former," She corrected. "Air Force."

"I do not have access to your file," he said bluntly.

Lydia huffed out a little laugh. "You're right. Not many outside of D.C. do."

"I have to admit that that makes me uneasy."

"Captain Lennox said that same thing. I'll tell you the same thing I told him. If you think that fact drives you nuts now, just wait until we butt heads over budget matters," her smile faded a bit, her angular face becoming serious. "In all sincerity, I'm not a threat to you, Autobot Ratchet, or to NEST. I'm hoping one day you and the others will realize that."

"Time will tell," he replied, remembering Optimus's words. He shoved aside part of his unease, resolved to follow his Prime's example and put faith in this human until she proved otherwise. "And you may call me Ratchet. The Autobot prefix is not necessary."

Her smile returned. "And you can call me Lydia, or Phoenix, if you prefer my military designation. I answer to both."

He filed the name _Phoenix_ away in his processors to investigate later. "Very well, Lydia."

"If you have a moment, Ratchet, I would very much like a tour of the medical facilities. We never got that far last week during my initial tour. Besides, it gives them time to finish whatever they are doing to my car."

Ratchet blinked his optics in surprise. "Who is doing what to your car?"

Lydia laughed, picking up her sunglasses from her desk and heading down the outside steps to join him. "I have no idea which one of you started it, but there's this rumor that every liaison has their car messed with during their first week here. I even heard about one car being painted to resemble Herbie…"

~*~*~*~*~*~

Lydia returned to the downstairs apartment area of her office and slammed the door forcefully behind her, making sure to pump as much anger into the action as possible. Only then did she let the mask of outrage fall from her face, and only then did she bend over double, laughing until the tears ran down her face. The show of anger had been all for the Autobots, trying to make them feel justified in their prank. Lydia had to admit that the prank had been the most inventive and kind she had ever experienced.

Out of respect for the way she cared for her car, the Autobots had painstakingly wrapped the entire thing in a kind of clear plastic, molding it to fit every line and plane and curve of the Porsche. Then they had gone crazy with the painting, even to the point of painting the bumper an eye-wrenching lime green. It had looked like something out of a tree-hugging-hippie convention by the time they were finished.

She had put on a brave front when she'd found the car, and only Optimus had caught the crack in her mask of anger. He'd seen the barely controlled twitch of her lips that belied her amusement. The Autobot leader had smiled back, inclining his head very slightly before walking away. She had no doubt that in the morning her car would be back to normal. The prank would have been viewed as a success, and they all could hopefully settle in to an easy relationship at last.

With that thought in mind, Lydia sat down on the sofa with a hand full of reports, determined to get some work done before bed. It wasn't an hour later before she started to doze off… and the nightmares started to take her again.


	4. Chapter 4 Mystery

A/N: This chapter came out really dark. I apologize about that. As always, I do not own Transformers or claim to any rights by them, etc… I only own my OCs.

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It was the mention of her military past that did it, that brought the ugly memories back to the surface. The landscape of her dreams shifted and blurred, and no amount of screaming or denial on her part could stop it. She fell backward into the darkness, whimpering as it twisted and morphed around her, becoming the inside of an F-22 fighter. She could feel the tight fit of the mask across her face, the near claustrophobic rush as the G-forces slammed her back against the seat.

And though she knew it was a dream, even as she fought to pull herself out of it, her hands worked the control stick with an almost effortless grace. Mission City loomed in the near distance, smoke rising from what could have only been massive explosions or multiple impacts. Her eyes watched in disbelief as the top ten stories of one of the skyscrapers collapsed in on itself. It looked as if something had cut through three stories right in the middle of the building, taking out the support of the upper half.

Phoenix was a seasoned military pilot. She had seen terrible things before, had been forced in the name of duty to commit some of those bad things, herself. Those deeds haunted in her in ways that she would never begin to express… but none of those could compare to what she had just seen on American soil. Demolition of whole buildings with people still inside just didn't happen in her country. It just couldn't.

Yet she was watching the whole thing with her own eyes.

"Oh god," she whispered.

Even from her distance, she could make out the tiny black dots that had to be people leaping from the destruction to their deaths. People falling from ten and twenty stories up. It was all silent, all dulled by the rush of wind blasting past her canopy. But that did little to blunt the horror.

"Raptor, raptor, do you copy? We've got friendlies mixed with bad-guys. Targets will be marked."

"Copy that," she said into the mic, training kicking in and forcing her personal feelings aside. It was time to put her game face on. She flicked a glance across her instruments. "ETA is one minute 30 seconds. Stand by."

"You have any idea what we're going up against?" this from Eclipse, the pilot flying to her right.

"Don't know, don't care," answered Spiral, his southern accent marred with anger. "Whatever dipshit started this fight is going to pay. Nobody blows up a city on my watch."

"Cut the chatter," their captain reprimanded them sternly. "Squad One takes the first pass in thirty seconds. We follow up with recon and circle around for the next volley. Bring your A-game, boys. Sabre rounds have been confirmed. I repeat, Sabre rounds have been confirmed for this run. Time to bring the rain."

Phoenix didn't need to actually hear the gasps from her fellow pilots. The silence on the comm. was enough. Sabre rounds could melt tank armor like it was butter. And they had just been authorized to fire such rounds into a city filled with people. The guns on her F-22 alone could fire one bullet for every square inch of its target zone. If they were authorized to use maximum fire, the concrete and brick buildings wouldn't even begin to offer safe cover to the people below.

There would literally be no place to hide, no place to seek shelter. Every shot had to count. Every single one.

"Targets marked. Still waiting." Came the marine's voice over the comm..

"Time on target – twenty seconds." Answered Squad One's captain.

Again, she pushed aside her own revulsion, focusing instead on how to make sure every shot she took hit exactly what it was meant to hit. Squad One took point, lining up for the first run and kicking into mach speed. Her squad maneuvered in behind them, falling back to watch and report the success or failure of the first attack.

"F-22's. We're still waiting!" This from the marine again, voice beginning to carry an edge of desperation.

"Weapons armed. Status Green!" Squad One's captain replied… and his squad opened up on the target.

"The hell is that?!" Spiral screamed, and Phoenix had to admit the question had been on her lips as well.

The target was some kind of… mech-like thing. Black, towering over the city and its people as if without a care to the destruction it caused. One arm had a set of rotating blades on it, spinning as fast and as lethal as the main propeller of a Blackhawk chopper. The… thing… was advancing on two other giant robot-looking things, which looked as if they were locked in a to-the-death wrestling match. It was like watching a sci-fi/horror movie brought to life, like Wes Craven and Michael Bay had gotten together and decided to direct the most terrifying thing to cross the silver screen since Friday the 13th.

Only this wasn't a movie. Real people were dying.

Squad One let go with all they had, blasting into the giant black robot with missiles as well as sabre rounds. The Marines on the ground took that as a sign and opened up as well. The battle took less than a second, and the giant mech fell backward in the road with enough force to shatter windows in the nearby buildings. Cries came through the comm. then, the sounds of Squad One rejoicing over their victory.

"Second wave on approach," her captain said.

And now it was Phoenix's turn to cry, and not in victory.

"NO!" she screeched into the comm., knowing what was about to come. "NO! Captain, we need to fall back! Starscream is coming! We have to fall—"

No one seemed to hear her, the entire squad of four F-22s lining up for their attach run. Even her fighter lined up like a lamb to the slaughter. There had been no way to know what was coming. No one could have predicted that the fifth approaching F-22 had been an enemy. Spiral had been the first to notice that the plane behind them had suddenly sprouted arms and legs.

"What is that? Take off!" he screamed.

It was the last thing he would ever say as Starscream ripped the dorsal fins off the back of the fighter. Spiral, the easy-going southern gentleman that had been fast with the drink and even faster with the poker rounds, slammed into the top of the nearest building and exploded. She'd done everything she could to turn around, to get out of the way of the enemy. By a split second, she was able to execute a barrel roll and evade the hail of bullets Starscream sent her way.

Eclipse wasn't that lucky. His fighter disintegrated in mid-flight under that stream of death. There would be nothing left to bury, she recalled. His widow had hugged an empty casket before it was lowered into the grave.

"DAMN YOU!" She screamed, grabbing the control stick and trying to wrench the jet into attack range.

The F-22 did not respond. It continued steadily on its course… as it had that day. Squad One was screaming across the comm., relaying information and attack vectors, trying like all hell to get to its sister team. Phoenix knew they would never reach her in time. She watched in muted horror as Starscream leapt through the air and landed on top of her fighter. One wing ripped free as if the jet was made of tissue paper. That would have been enough to kill her, however Starscream had gone a step further and fired a round right into her fuel system.

Sparks exploded throughout the canopy, flames jetting from behind her and across her right side. Her helmet splintered under the hail of metal as the cockpit began to tear itself apart. _EJECT! EJECT! EJECT!_ shrieked the computer. She screamed as she reached for the eject handle…

~*~*~

Lydia came up off the sofa with a start, hands grasping the Sig Sauer automatic pistol off the coffee table. Breath heaved in and out of her lungs, sweat rolling down her face and into her eyes. It took her a few moments to shake off the dream, to realize that she wasn't falling to her death and that she was safe in her office. She was safe on the Diego Garcia military base, surrounded by more Autobots than any person had a right to be. Starscream was nowhere near her. He couldn't hurt her anymore.

That thought did little to still the jackhammering of her heart.

She closed her eyes tightly, hands gripping the gun so hard that they shook. "It was just a dream," She whispered. "It was just a dream. Let it go, Lydia. Let it go…"

_Let it go_, she thought bitterly. Yeah, right. Might as well tell the moon to let go of the tides while she was at it. There was no way she would ever forget or let go of what had happened to her, to her friends. Spiral and Eclipse had been like brothers to her, the two men in her life that she could have counted on for anything. They'd survived tours in the worst stations across the world together. They'd survived air raids; aerial dog fights the likes of which made most pilots piss themselves. Always as a team. Always strong.

Now she and Captain Eddard were all that remained. Angrily, she swiped the sweat from her face.

Lydia forced herself to put the gun down, staggering over to the little bathroom she'd had built into her personal space. Sweat soaked her clothes, making them stick to her skin in ways she just didn't like. It reminded her of her own blood, of how it had felt as it congealed in her flight suit. Hours had passed after she had ejected before the medics had found her. Or what was left of her, that is.

She tried not to think about that as she turned on the shower, but her mind wouldn't turn away from the memory. Her left arm had suffered first degree burns from wrist to shoulder, the thick scar tissue there the reason why she always wore the long sleeved shirts. After all she had been through; the last thing she wanted or needed was for people to gawk at her scars.

Likewise her left eye had been damaged beyond repair. Metal shards had been embedded in her skull, in her chest. Both legs had been broken during her descent by parachute. The doctors had given her less than twenty-four hours to live.

Lydia gazed at herself in the mirror. Once, both eyes had been a beautiful creamy jade green. The implant in her left eye socket ached from time to time, as if her body tried to reject it over and over. But it was a permanent part of her, wired into her optic nerve in a cutting-edge surgery, and it granted her perfect sight once more. Not perfect enough to fly again with the Air Force, though. No amount of physical therapy or retraining would grant her that privilege again. She'd been shoved behind a desk—honorably of course—and told her use her degree in Financial Accounting to help serve her country.

As if that wasn't bad enough, no one had been able to explain to her why the implant couldn't be made to match her natural eye color. Surely if they had the technology to replace an eye with a robotic counterpart, they should have the technology to match the coloring.

Dr. Edgars, formerly of Sector Seven, had gently stated that it was impossible. She was lucky to have an eye at all. Just as she was lucky to have the implant in her heart to keep it beating, and the implant in her left arm that allowed full use of that limb again. She shouldn't look the proverbial gift-horse in the mouth.

Lydia snorted, frowning darkly. If she had known that the parts inside her had been reversed engineered from NBE-1, she would have flat out rejected the operations. Any sane human would have run screaming from anything that came from Megatron.

The choice had not been hers. And now she harbored the secrets, her file accessible to only the Top members of the staff to keep the Autobots from finding out. The powers-that-be had severe reservations in letting the Autobots know just exactly what they had reverse-engineered from Megatron, especially given how tight-lipped they were about their weapon systems and technology.

Lydia wasn't so sure. After her conversation with Ratchet earlier, she had the feeling that she could trust him. He might not like the fact of what she had inside her, however, he didn't strike her as the type to fly off the handle about it and insist on ripping them out. She shook her head, stepping under the spray of hot water. That was not her problem at the moment. Getting over the nightmares was…

~*~*~

Optimus Prime climbed to his feet the moment he heard the shower activate. He had been passing through the area when he heard her distress. Fearing for her life, he had broken the rule and peered in through the door. Autobot hearing was very precise in normal circumstances. Living with humans had only increased that sensitivity triple-fold. It made it easier to avoid stepping on their allies, among other things.

Things like listening for the increasing heart-rate as a human proceeded to tell a lie. He had not underplayed the human art of lying when he had spoken with Ratchet. It was a trait that disturbed him greatly, and yet there wasn't anything he could do about it. Humans would, in time, grow out of such dangerous habits. Until then, he had to make due with what he had.

And what he had on hand was a mystery in Lydia DeMarco.

Optimus turned and headed for his office. As he walked, he replayed the murmurings from her dreams. She had distinctly said the names of Mission City, of Squad One, of Spiral and Eclipse. And, disturbingly enough, the name of Starscream.


	5. Chapter 5 Frustration

The headache started behind her right eye, pulsing just out of reach with every beat of her heart. It always started behind that eye, and Lydia tried not to frown too much in annoyance. _Figures,_ she thought bitterly. The only good human eye she had left, and she was prone to getting headaches behind it. The last quack—err doctor—she had been to about it had informed her that the headaches were in direct proportion to her implant. The clarity of vision that came from the cybernetic eye was much greater than from her biological one. As a consequence, the weaker eye would constantly struggle to meet the standards of the greater.

Like twins, the doctor had said, one will always strive to be equal to the other. The side effect of that striving was the headaches.

And speaking of twins that seemed to delight in giving her headaches… Lydia gazed down at the two Autobots beneath her, trying to keep the doctor's advice in mind. Arcee, on the other hand, had no such advice to smooth out her fuming temper.

Two sets of terrified blue-white optics peered up at her from beneath the net that held them fast. Skids and Mudflap huddled together underneath the metal-mesh-like blanket, clinging to each other. All around them, tied to every available surface of the net, were little green pine trees. Little green pine tree air fresheners, to be precise. And there were so many of them that the scent was like a slap to their olfactory sensors. Dewy pine, wet, whip-like and sticky, filled their senses and coated their receptors until both thought they were going to gag.

"We get it! We get it!" Skids shrieked.

"Yeah, we get it!" Mudflap added, nodding his head vigorously. The motion only helped to shake the net, which in turn let out another burst of pine-scented hell.

Lydia lifted an eyebrow. "You get what?"

"Not to screw with you!" Skids wailed. "You're evil. We get it. You're pure evil!"

Her lips quirked in an almost-smile in spite of the migraine forming in her head, a smile she forced away quickly. "And?"

"Tell her!" Mudflap nearly screamed, shaking his twin until the other bot's head was nearly whipping back and forth. "You know what she wants to hear. Tell her! TELL HER!"

"I p-promise never t-to mes-mess with your c-c-car again!" Skids managed out, the entire sentence oddly punctuated considering his twin was still shaking him for all he was worth.

She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against Arcee's shoulder. She flicked a glance up at the femme. "Hrm… I'm not sure I quite believe them. How about you?"

Arcee copied Lydia's exact pose, tilting her head to the side, mouth plates compressed in a firm line. Skids and Mudflap started to quake, violently shaking until the floor vibrated with the action. Both females continue to stare down at him, Arcee from her normal height and Lydia from the balcony of her office. It looked, at least to the twins, as if the two females were trying to decide which parts on their miserable hides were worth salvaging… and which parts they would enjoy slagging very slowly.

"I'm not sure, either," Arcee said slowly. "I mean, while this is definitely degrading to their mech egos, I don't think it's enough punishment for what they did."

Mudflap gulped loudly, activating his internal comm.. _I so hate you right now, bro._

_How was I to know that she wouldn't fight fair?!?!? _Skids cried.

_She's a FEMME! They never fight fair, you slag-head! You should have known Arcee would come to her rescue. Remember how she loved Lydia's car? We never should have touched it again!_

_We didn't do any damage to it! _Skids tried again. _Just filled it with the air fresheners. How was I supposed to know the things would drip fragrance oil and stain the leather??! Or that Arcee would have been given permission to copy the car that day?!?!_

The both looked up once more, taking in the image of the two angry femmes, and gulped in unison. Even under the miserable net with its horrifying air fresheners, they could still detect a faint pine scent coming from Arcee. The femme had copied the car, alright, down to every detail… including the air fresheners hidden all over it, unfortunately.

Many a joke had been made at Arcee's expense on account of that, and one poor innocent mech in particular had taken the brunt of her anger. Wheeljack had asked the femme if she was experimenting with the human female custom of applying perfume in order to attract a mate. He had gently suggested that "pine" was not the most erotic of choices for either mech or human, and that he would gladly provide the notes from his experiment on the subject of fragrant Earth pheromones.

Wheeljack was still recovering in Ratchet's med bay.

Mudflap just stared at his twin until the other whimpered and looked away. _What do we do now?_

_Uhhh…call for help?_

_From who? _Mudflap looked around frantically, searching for some kind of inspiration. _If Optimus or Prowl finds out we tried to prank the car again, we're scrap. 'Specially since both told us not to touch the it again._

"What do we do with them?" Lydia asked, tapping a finger to her lips in thought. "We could always drop them off on Prowl's desk, as is. But we'd run the risk of Prowl off-lining from sheer amusement."

"We could give them to Ironhide," Arcee offered. "He's always wanted to learn the human game of kick-ball. I think they'd make the perfect ball for him. One he could kick without fear of it deflating or going too far to recover easily."

"True," Lydia agreed, almost loosing it with laughter at the way Skids and Mudflap silently pleaded for help, their hands folded together to copy the human expression of begging. "But that's not going to teach them anything. I think we need to be a bit more creative. We have a sack full of pine-scented trouble. What does one do with a sack full of…"

Lydia looked over at Arcee, a wicked light flashing in her mismatched eyes. She was more than pleased to see a similar light glittering in the femme's optics. Apparently, the same thought had occurred to her as well.

"I'll go get the forklift," Arcee said brightly.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Optimus Prime stood in the hallway outside of the med bay, waiting patiently for the sounds of raised voices to die down. Already he had to send away the mechs that seemed to arrive in a steady stream, ready for battle. Ironhide, Prowl, Hound and Bumblebee, just to name a few, had found reasons to lurk in and around the area. And each one of them carried at least one fully charged weapon. Apparently the sound of the argument behind those doors had carried farther than just the medical facility, though Optimus doubted highly that that was the reason for the constant check-ups.

_Everyone _knew that Ratchet and Lydia were meeting today for their first round of budget negotiations. And the betting pool this time around had grown into something legendary.

This was part of the reason he was there, waiting for the meeting to come to its close.

Normally, he would not have concerned himself with the activities of his chief medical officer and the current budget liaison. However, Lydia's actions that morning had pushed the human from an annoying, if often amusing, necessity in order to co-exist on this planet, to something in the realm of slightly dangerous. He and Lennox had recently returned from an extended shift in Egypt overseeing the deconstruction and removal of the sun harvester. What should have been a quiet roll into the main hangar had turned into something else, altogether.

Hanging in the center of the ceiling in a huge metallic net, wrapped in red and green garland, were Mudflap and Skids. Big red bows were tied to their heads, and a sign reading "Merry Xmas in July" hung below them. The scent of pine trees filled the hangar so thickly that it took him a moment to realize it was coming from the twins. Both mechs looked absolutely miserable, and yet the humans and Autobots present went about their activities as if nothing was amiss. Some even wore Santa hats. Bumblebee played a variety of Christmas music.

The net, itself, he would learn later, had come from Wheeljack. It was an experimental prototype that somehow scrambled the processors of whomever was inside, preventing them from tearing, cutting, or blasting their way out of it. The pine fresheners had been Lydia's added touch. Rumor had it that Wheeljack was considering leaving the things. Turning a bunch of Decepticons into pine scented weaklings had an appeal to it that the inventor just couldn't ignore.

Thank Primus that he still had his battle mask engaged. Cutting off his vocal processor, Optimus had wordlessly excused himself. Only when he was alone did he give into the fit of laughter.

Arcee had come to him some time later and explained just why the twins were left hanging like an overgrown air freshener. Again, Optimus held back his amusement, assigning only a minor punishment to the femme before sending her on her way. The incident had elevated Lydia from human bureaucrat to human ally. Consequently, it also had more than a few Autobots looking over their shoulder whenever she walked by. Lydia DeMarco had proven herself a very dangerous and inventive adversary in the prank department.

No one wanted to be next.

The sound of something heavy and metallic hitting the wall inside the medical facility had him shifting to battle stance. Combat routines overrode all others, his mask slapping into place. Behind him, Ironhide, Bumblebee, Hound and Prowl suddenly appeared. He spared not a glance in their direction, instead keying open the door. If they walked into a fight, if Ratchet had finally blown a fuse and had attacked the human…

Lydia stood on top of a couple of parts containers, which were stacked on top of a berth sized for Autobots. That put her on eye-level with Ratchet. One hand was on her hip. A wrench half the size of her body, considered tiny by Cybertonian standards, was gripped in the other. It was the look on her face that made them pause.

"You think you've got a temper, eh?" she seethed, hefting the wrench as best as she could. "You're not the only one that knows how to wing one of these at some blockhead that deserves it!"

Ratchet looked at the human as if his processors couldn't decide on shooting first or simply swiping her away like an annoying mosquito. "Listen to me," he snapped. "I'm not some youngling that needs correcting from you. I know what is best for my race, regardless of what your medical committee says."

"Oh, you need _something_, alright," she shouted. "You think all this stuff is cheap or easy to come by? If I go back to my superiors with this list of demands, they're going to think you're either insane or an extortionist."

Ratchet's optics blazed red, and he took a step forward. "Typical. Just because something is difficult, you humans believe it's impossible."

Lydia lifted the wrench over her head in a two-handed grip. "Bring it, bright eyes," she snarled. "I've got no problem throwing these things at you all day long."

"I might have a problem with that," Optimus retorted, more than a touch of aggravation in his tone. "What seems to be the problem here?"

"No problem a wrench upside the processor won't fix," Lydia replied, eyeing Ratchet as if to take aim once more.

"That's it," Ratchet began, taking another step forward.

"Okay, everyone, calm the frag down," Ironhide growled, stepping in between the angry mech and the angry human. He rolled his cannons to the ready, charging up. "Ratchet, back off. Now."

"You, too," Optimus said, plucking the wrench from Lydia's fingers with one hand and lifting her up with the other. "I don't know what happened here, and I honestly don't want to know. What I _expect _is a complete report from the both of you within two standard human hours. That report had best include your _joint and agreed_ upon budget recommendations. Is that understood?"

Lydia glared at him as he set her gently upon the floor. "That's not going to happen."

"Find a way. I have faith in you," Optimus replied.

"Oh, it's not me that I lack faith in," she stated, turning her glare onto Ratchet. "It's him."

"If you are in fear for your safety," Ironhide put in. "I can remain to… mediate any violence."

Lydia whipped around and kicked Ironhide in the foot. The giant mech gaped down at her in surprise. "You think I need protection from Ratchet? Please, who the hell do you think threw the first wrench?"

"And I object strongly to the idea that we need a babysitter," Ratchet huffed, reaching down. "The negotiations were proceeding just fine until we were interrupted."

"I agree completely," Lydia stepped up onto Ratchet's hand, and he in turn put her back upon her stack of supplies. "We can handle this on our own."

Optimus looked between his medical officer and his budget liaison and fought the impulse to rub the bridge of his nose plates in frustration. The impulse won. He found himself rubbing his hand over his face. "Do you mean to tell me that the human broke the rules first this time?"

Lydia opened her mouth to reply… and then closed it. She exchanged a glance with Ratchet before shrugging her slender shoulders. "Mostly," she conceded. "Sort of, well, yeah. Tall, Yellow and Frustrating over here—," she jerked a thumb at Ratchet. "—goaded me into it. If there's a consequence for this, I'll take it."

Ratchet rolled his optics. "_We'll_ take it. I lost my temper, too. So long as the items I need are approved and ordered in this draft of the budget, I will report to Prowl for punishment."

Again, Lydia wheeled around, and the look in her eyes would have sent most sane bots running for cover. "Read my lips, baby boy. No. Way. In. Hell."

"ENOUGH!" Optimus bellowed, and everyone in the room jumped in alarm. "I want that report in two hours, or I will come looking for you."

With that, the Autobot leader and his entourage exited the med bay. For once, Lydia was left as one of the individuals staring wide-eyed at the doors in silence…

… and no one noticed Ironhide and Bumblebee slapping hands together and grinning as if they'd been given the best present in the world.


	6. Chapter 6 Peace?

A/N: Thank you all so very much for the wonderful reviews (and ideas and corrections to the errors I make)! I'm very glad that you are having just as much fun with Lydia's little foray through the Autobot world as I am. As always, I do not own Transformers and I am not making any money off of this. It's just for fun, so enjoy!

This chapter is a little short and I apologize for that. Some real life obligations have kept me from writing as much as I would like. But the next chapter is coming soon!

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The doors to the medical facility boomed closed with, what sounded like to Lydia at least, a deafening finality. Even Ratchet seemed to notice a subtle difference in the sound of the metal. While both were reasonably certain that nothing at all had happened to the entrance in question since they'd passed through it eariler, there was still something so… somber about the quiet _thud. _She shifted her stance on her silver Jimmy Choo heels, her expression changing from one of outrage and surprise to contemplation.

_No wonder he is their Prime_, she thought. Optimus had come into the room like a tame thundercloud, all that potential for rage, for unleashing the dark rush of a battle he had believed in progress. Fire, that was what it was. There had been fire in his blue, blue optics. It had charged the room with barely contained electricity, so much so that the hairs on the back of her neck had stood on end.

Of course, she hadn't noticed such things in the midst of her own anger. Only when he had left, when it felt as if he had taken all the warmth, the life from the room with him, did she realize it. That Autobot had more command presence, more sheer force of personality than most humans ever hoped to achieve. But also, burried in all that consuming energy, she had detected a note of resignation and weariness. The way he had rubbed at his face—a distinctive human gesture he had picked up recently, she was sure—betrayed that emotion all too well.

It made him seem more real to her, like he was truly a sentient being and not an ideal come to life. At the same time, it also made her feel ridiculously stupid.

"Well, that went well," she said sullenly, rubbing at the back of her neck. The migraine from that morning had spread from behind her eye and was now eating its way painfully down the muscles in her neck.

"You think?" Ratchet replied dryly, but without the acidic burn of before.

Lydia turned back to him, noticing that same weariness in him as well. He suddenly looked old to her, like the years and eons of his existence had found their way back onto his shoulders. The weight of caring for his fellow Autobots, for the remnant of a dying race, must literally feel like the weight of the world. Or, more to the point, the distinct _lack _of a world. They no longer had one, and it wasn't by choice.

The great Autobot Ratchet, the Slayer of Liaison Egos and Giver of Budget Migraines, simply looked like a… well… person to her. Granted, a twenty foot tall, robotic, millennia old person, but a person nonetheless. A person with his own shadows and responsibilities, with his own regrets and fatigue tucked safely behind a gruff exterior. And an orphan, to boot. All of the Autobots were orphans in the truest sense of the word. Oh yeah, she felt ridiculous alright. Picking a fight with an orphan leader of a dying race without a home of their own, who was only here to make certain their history did not repeat itself on Earth. How low could one person get?

Lydia bit her lower lip, glancing back at the door in which Optimus had departed minutes before. "I shouldn't have provoked him," she sighed. "Blame the Italian in me. We tend to be a hotheaded people."

Ratchet snorted, his optics fading back to that calming blue. "There are worse things to be than hotheaded."

She took his statement as the peace offering it was as she sat down on top of the supply crates. At least she had chosen to wear the dark purple pants suit, she mused. It seemed like the one good decision she had made that whole morning. Easier to pout and feel like a dumb five year old in pants rather than in a skirt. As if to illustrate the point, she swung her dangling feet slowly, staring down at her shoes.

Normally her insanely expensive shoe collection (and current obsession to since she could no longer fly an F-22) bought her absolute joy and serenity. Today… well, it was just something to look at so she didn't have to look him in the eye. "Like on Optimus Prime's shit list?"

That got an amused chuckle from the medic. "I hardly believe we are on his bad side… at the moment. If we delay in his request, however, that might change."

Lydia shivered slightly. "Would you say I'm crazy if the idea of his being angry with me was more heartbreaking than the idea of brig time?"

Ratchet extended one finger under her chin, gently tipping her head upward. Had that have happened at any other time, she would have either thought he'd blown his last processor or that he wanted to line her head up to take a direct blast from his cannon. Wouldn't do to miss and damage anything important. The thought made her grin somewhat as she allowed her head to rise at his prodding. Oh, there was something about Prime, alright. Some magical Autobot charisma or something that just cut right through the bullshit to the heart of the problem.

Whether he was present or not.

"I think that would make you an intelligent female of your species, Lydia DeMarco."

Lydia smirked and batted her eyes. "Either that, or just some love-struck idiot."

Ratchet dropped his hand in an instant, his optics flickering in what she was beginning to believe was the Autobot equivalent of wincing. "Oh, Primus save us, not you, too," He muttered.

It was no secret that some of the women on base had secret crushes on a few of the Autobots. Tiny little fan clubs had broken out, the largest of course belonging to Prime. Prowl had offlined at the very thought of it, his logical processors immediately trying to tackle the difficulties a union between an Autobot and a human could present. Ironhide had flat out refused to look any human female in the eye for a whole month, for fear of the look being misinterpreted. Sides and Sunny had demanded a detailed list of members of each fan club, preferably their own, of course. Optimus had simply walked away without a comment… and, oddly enough, was scarcely seen during the times when the majority of humans on base happened to be female.

Lydia, herself, found the entire situation hysterical. She and Arcee had had more than one laugh over the whole thing. And then secretly plotted on how to use the information to the best advantage. Like now, when teasing the hell out of the Chief Medical Officer.

"Easy there, Doc," she grinned, laying it on thick. "Even accountants like me have a heart. It's easy to be caught up in the prestige and devotion of command. It's happened all through human history. Every gal wants to be the main squeeze of the hero."

"Even if the hero in question is happily mated?" he asked, crossing his massive arms over his chest. "And I thought you accountants no longer possessed your sparks."

Lydia pressed her hands to her chest in mock-horror. "We do so have our sparks…err hearts. Just because we happened to move them across the accounting grid from 'asset' to 'liability' doesn't mean we lost them. They're wrapped nice and snug in red tape and safely tucked away in a deposit box. It's lawyers that don't have them anymore."

"Oh, my mistake," Ratchet replied, a bit of a smile tugging on his lip plates. "Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference."

She laughed, one of those long pure laughs that left tears running down her face. She couldn't help it. And he grinned back. "Careful now," she chided. "You're acting like you like me, doc. We can't have that getting around. Next thing you know, the other liaisons will stop running in fear from you. They might actually stop to chat."

It was Ratchet's turn to shudder, and he looked around quickly. Spying the wrench on the floor—the one she had not so ungracefully chucked at his head earlier—he picked it up. "I think I need to throw this now. Keep up the illusion that I hate you if we are going to continue in this manner in the base."

Lydia's mismatched eyes lit up, and her lips curved in that way that either meant trouble or… well… more trouble. "Hold that thought," she said, hoping down from the crates carefully. "Better yet, help me down, and then meet me at the front of the base. I've got an idea."

"One I sincerely hope will meet with our deadline from Optimus."

"Trust me, bright eyes," she winked. "This is going to meet with his approval."


	7. Chapter 7 Conversation

A/N: Apologies to everyone for the mistake of trying to load this chapter. For some reason, the website told me that the file had loaded, however nothing was there under chapter seven! ::cries a lot:: Is anyone else having issues loading anything to the site? And if so, how does one go about correcting the issue?

Here is the new chapter, and I hope that everyone enjoys it. It went a little serious, and perhaps a little dark, but I still think it came out okay. Hopefully this will post this time.

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He wasn't quite sure what to expect when Lydia had suggested that the meet at the front of the base. More than a few scenarios drifted through his processors. There were a multitude of logical reasons for moving their negotiations out of the med lab. For one, it would eliminate the possibility of eavesdroppers and interruptions. It would also eliminate his need to weld a few slag-headed mechs together for being idiotic. If they thought he was ignorant to the current betting pool, they truly _should_ have their processors checked.

For another, it would allow for a fresh perspective on the topic at hand. If there was ever one trait that both humans and Autobots shared in common, it was the need for visual stimulation. A change of scenery did just as much for the human mind as it did for Cybertonian processors. He could only hope it did the same for the temper.

Ratchet set his optics to wide scan, those blue orbs passing over the desert landscape before him. The sun was just starting to set, the wind picking up a light dust of sand kissed delicately with scarlet light. He found it oddly pleasing, as he did with most of the terrain of this planet. Cybertron had not held a fraction of the distinctive types of land masses that Earth displayed. Many of his kind found it frustrating and disconcerting at how _un-uniform_ —Prowl's word, not his—the environment of this planet was. One moment a bot was flying over mountain ranges and the next he or she was confronted by the vastness of an ocean. A few human hours later and the enormity of a desert was staring the bot in question right in the face.

Secretly, he delighted in it. As he delighted at the abundance of organic life that thrived in the differences. He could spend the next hundred thousand human years on this planet and still not know everything there was to know about it. It was like an entire galaxy of wonders spun tight into a tiny planetoid shape.

With that thought, he allowed his processors to drift. Images played behind his optics, remembered moments of his search for the All-Spark. While it was true that he missed his home, that if given the option, he would undo every bit of damage the war had caused and go back to the way things were, his travels had blessed him with some of the most beautiful sights in the galaxy. Earth was no exception. Nebulas and star systems of every color, whole expanses of nothing but velvet blackness and jewel-like star fields… There were moments that he had simply stopped. Stopped moving, stopped searching… stopped processing.

And stared for what felt like forever at the beauty of the universe. They were his reward, these images, his sacred treasures that brought him comfort in his darker periods. For even though their race had lost everything, the galaxy had still shown favor upon them, letting those of his kind view the wonders of the unknown. Optimus Prime, with his ability to put words together in perfect harmony, had once stood at his side, speechless and wrapped in awe, while witnessing the birth of a star.

Some things went beyond words. And some things were too sacred to defile with anything but reverent silence.

"Whatever it is you see behind your eyes, I'm jealous of it."

Ratchet blinked away the images, stashing them beneath a barely used subroutine as quickly as he could. He felt his circuits heat up, the cooling fans kicking in to compensate. Had he been human, he would have flushed bright red in embarrassment. Being caught flatfooted like that; staring off like a star-struck sparkling… it was unbecoming, undignified.

And if Lydia had noticed at all, she had the grace to give no indication. If anything, the human smiled up at him gently, her tone serene. "Just thinking," he replied, tipping his head to the side. "Why would you be jealous?"

"Every female in the world—Autobot or human—would give almost everything to have someone stare at them like that."

The cooling fans kicked up another notch, and this time Lydia grinned. Oh yeah, she had noticed, alright. But this time he wasn't embarrassed. More like flustered at her complement. "Like what?" he snapped.

Lydia leaned in close, lowering her voice. "Like she was the first deep breath of sweet life a male had taken after centuries of breathing shallowly."

Ratchet rolled his optics, staring down at her with a cynical expression. "I think you humans should spend more time focusing on your lives and less time waxing poetic about your deaths."

She snickered, obviously unconcerned with his gruff comment. "Ya talk the big hard talk, bright eyes. But I know the difference," she lowered her sunglasses and winked. "Now, transform and we can get going. _Tempus Fugit_, my friend. Time flies and it's got a head start on our asses in reference to Prime's deadline."

"Transform?" he asked in surprise, and then truly looked at the human.

Gone were the flashy shoes, the expensive suit and jewelry. Lydia DeMarco stood before him in relaxed fitted dark blue jeans, comfortable Nike track shoes, a simple white t-shirt and a long-sleeved black hoodie. Her face was scrubbed clean of the powders and creams human females wore to attract males, and to him that fact seemed to suit her better. Her natural Mediterranean complexion seemed to glow slightly in the sunset, her curly black hair falling loosely around her shoulders.

He wasn't the only male that approved of her appearance. More than a few of the human males on duty had stopped to stare at the Budget Liaison, men who, not a few hours before, wouldn't have spared her a second glance. Especially one Sergeant Robert Epps. That human had dropped his clipboard no less than three times already, finding reasons to hang around the hangar doors. Annoyance and a strange protectiveness swept through him in that moment, an almost fatherly attitude that surprised him.

"Someone is going to trip on that, Sergeant Epps," Ratchet pinned the man with a cool stare, indicating the clipboard. "We have enough to patch up in the medical area without adding acts of obliviousness."

Epps, for his part, snapped out of his staring fit and picked up his clipboard. He headed on his way with a murmured 'thanks, man.' But not without casting one last look over his shoulder, and a rather approving smile on his lips.

Lydia elbowed the medic lightly in the foot plating. "Nice one," she smirked. "Didn't know you cared enough to watch out for me."

"I care about your safety as much as I care for any human supporter."

"Keep telling yourself that, big guy. I know the truth. Now," she hefted the cooler in her right hand. "You going to transform, or are we going to waste gas by forcing me to drive along side you. The desert awaits, and the beers aren't getting any colder."

~*~*~*~*~*~

As far as budget discussions went, Ratchet had to admit that this was the best one he had ever attended. Lydia lay sprawled on her stomach on his hood, facing his windshield. One hand grasped her second beer, the other held a pen. Beneath the hand holding the writing instrument sat a florescent pink clipboard containing the latest budget, the latest budget projections, and the current notes to their conversation.

Lydia tapped the top of her pen against her cheek thoughtfully. "Okay, I might—key word being _might_, here—be able to squeeze in that request for materials to create the giant welding system. But it's going to mean we have to cut something else."

Ratchet made a disgusted sound. "If we must. That welder is of critical importance given the number of arriving Decepticons on planet. They are beginning to outnumber us again."

"Don't I know it," Lydia sighed, taking off her sunglasses and rubbing at her green eye. "The committee is all up in arms about that last attack in South America. The Brazilian government is currently trying to milk reparations from Uncle Sam due to the large-scale destruction of a huge chunk of rain forest."

"That upset me just as much as it upset you humans."

"I doubt it," she smirked. "You were upset due to the long term projections of what could happen to the planet and all the organics on it if this destruction keeps up. The Brazilian government was upset because they lost a large piece of a tourist attraction. The all-mighty dollar wins again."

"That is something about your species that I will never understand."

"Join the club," she yawned, flipping on her back and taking a moment to stretch. "You can save us from the Decepticons, but I doubt you will be able to save us from ourselves."

"Optimus has faith in you," he said. "Many of us do, too."

"Optimus Prime has got to be the most understanding and forgiving sentient in the entire universe," she began, blinking her dual-toned eyes at him. "But I think his faith in us as a whole is misplaced at times. There's probably only a handful of humans that really care about our future. He just had the luck to meet a few of them."

"There's only a handful of us left," he countered. "And we have made a difference so far."

"Point," she agreed with a lopsided grin. "This has got to be the first time in history that all the nations of the world can agree on one thing. Decepticons equals bad. Autobots equals good. That's got to count for something."

He chuckled. "There is hope after all."

"Hope for the human race, yes. Hope for this budget…," she trailed off, groaning softy as she rubbed at her eye again.

Again, he was struck with the overwhelming desire to scan her. "Something wrong?"

"Naw," Lydia dropped her hand, rolling back onto her stomach. "Just a migraine. They happen."

"You seem to be having those with increasing frequency," Ratchet put in, a touch of concern edging into his tone. "If you would feel comfortable with it, I would scan you and determine if any serious problem exists."

She almost froze, the hesitation and spike of fear flickering across her face before vanishing as quickly as it came. Had she not been literally nose to nose with him, he might have missed it entirely. She was very good at keeping her secrets, which was something he had learned after their first conversation. And while it was a trait that inspired confidence in her, it also let on to the fact that she could—and would—keep other secrets as well.

"Going to tell me what that was about?" he asked quietly, his voice almost turning the question into a command.

Lydia tried to shrug it off, buying herself a moment to decide whether to lie to him, or to come clean. Deep down she knew both avenues weren't options. At all. Ever. She was beginning to think of Ratchet as a good friend, possibly as close a friend as Spiral had been. Calling him 'bright eyes' or 'baby boy' as she used to call Spiral was proof enough of that. But telling him what was inside of her just wasn't possible. Not only could she face a court marshal and the possibility of life in prison, she could very well lose her life if the Autobots took exception to her implants.

"War wound," she said at last, settling on something close to the truth. "My last fight as an Air Force pilot didn't end well."

"I'm listening." He said, refusing to let her lock down this conversation.

God, he sounded so sincere. It tore at her conscious not to pour out the entire story right then and there. It was on the tip of her tongue, burning up her brain with the desire to confess. What a blessing it would be if she could find someone to talk to about the nightmares. Someone that might understand far better than anyone else on the planet. She stared down at his hood, frowning in thought.

"Long story short," she began, feeling like a coward for not telling him. "I was hurt really bad. Seriously bad. To the point that they thought I wasn't going to make it. I can't tell you what my mission was, Ratchet. God, I so wish that I could. You have to know that. I would tell you if I could."

She looked up at him, silently pleading for him to understand. "My plane was ripped to pieces with me still inside of it," she swallowed hard, voice going slightly hoarse from the memory. "I'd always seen footage of what could happen when in a dogfight that bad. All us pilots were required to know, to be able to assess and handle the situation if it ever occurred. But how do you handle watching your friends explode next to you? And when your own fighter goes up in a big ball of flame, what do you do?"

"Nothing. There is nothing you can do, Lydia. Nothing any of us could do."

In that moment, he made his decision. She had a second to gasp, surprised as he transformed around her. In moments, she found herself lying down in his palm instead of sprawling across his hood. He held her up to eye level with him… and softly scanned her. Just a light scan, a topographical one to ensure no tissue tumors resting near the skin was the cause of her pain. And then it was his turn to hide his surprise when he found the scar tissue. The entire left arm was thick with it. Sections of both legs bore the same. The pain alone of that could have been the source of her migraines. And yet somehow he had a feeling that there was more to it

"There is no amount of training for any sentient species to cope with that kind of violence," he said softly. "There is no treatment for the pain of surviving it, either."

Tears welled in her eyes. "There should be," she whispered, looking away. Embarrassment, shame, regret, sorrow... all rose up from the emotional core of her being, threatening to slam down like a giant wave and drown her. Survivor's Guilt they called it. She called it living with hell in the center of your chest. "If we're forced to do these things, to live through them, then there ought to be a way to not feel the after effects."

The finger of his other hand touched her lightly on the shoulder, the closest thing he could come to placing a hand on her back in comfort. "If you could turn off all the bad emotions, Lydia, you would never be able to appreciate the good."

What could she say to that? She shrugged her other shoulder, drawing her knees up to her chest and swiping her sleeve beneath her nose. "Doesn't help the pain I'm feeling now," she murmured, flicking a glance back up at him. "Can't your kind just turn off the routines that supply those kinds of emotions?"

"We could," he admitted. "But even the worst of us would rather lose their sparks than feel nothing ever again."

Lydia nodded, staring down at his palm in silence for a long time. There was so much more she wanted, _needed,_ to say. Duty made her hold her tongue. "I'm sorry, Ratchet. Having a mental breakdown in your hand isn't really what I had in mind when I suggested this trip."

He nodded once, accepting her words as an end to the conversation—for now. They would pick it up again later, of that he had no doubt. For now, he would respect her silence. "My offer still stands. Any time you wish to be scanned, I will do so. Perhaps we can find a cure to these migraines."

Lydia sent him a watery smile by way of thanks. "First things first, though. We tackle this budget. Then we can tackle my headaches. One is very much linked to the other, I believe."

Again, Ratchet nodded, setting her down on the soft sand. He transformed once more, and once more she picked up her beer, her clipboard, and settled back onto his hood. "If we can only find a source of raw materials," she began, wiping away the last of her tears and diving back into the numbers. "We could knock a huge portion of this right out of the water."

"Unfortunately the raw materials I need do not grow in abundance on this planet like your rain forests."

"No," she said slowly. "Not unless you have the ability to core drill past the earth's crust for a couple hundred miles."

Ratchet went utterly still beneath her. "I had not thought of that."

"Thought of what?"

Somehow she got the impression that the rescue vehicle beneath her was smiling widely. "You'll see."


	8. Chapter 8 Proposal

A/N: Thank you to all who review and make this story a favorite. Such news really keeps the creative process going! I am working my way through the wonderful suggestions as we speak, so keep reading. You never know when yours might pop up. :D

As always, I do not own Transformers, pretend to own Transformers, or even dream of making any money off of this. It is strictly for fun. Please no sue!

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Optimus Prime stared down at the report in his hands, his optics traveling over the information on the datapad again and again. The report itself had been committed to memory the first time he had read it. However, he was using the human gesture of rereading to buy some time. Time to decide which of the many and varied responses he should state to the assembled team before him. And time to let them sweat it out, to worry about what the Autobot leader was going to say to their proposal.

Optimus was not a cruel leader in any sense of the word, nevertheless in the grand scheme of the universe, he was a simple sentient like those arrayed before him. Meaning he wasn't perfect. He had his flaws, his imperfections. He had a temper, one he locked down as hard and fast as he possibly could. One couldn't share the same source of spark-birth with Megatron and _not_ have a temper, but that fact didn't give him liscense to spew out hatred at every opportunity. He knew his own limitations, knew what would happen if he let his temper run around unchecked. One only had to look at Megatron to understand why Optimus walked away more times than not. It was always in the forefront of his processors, that understanding that if he let go of his temper, he would be as bad as his brother.

If not worse.

And yet there were moments when, in his darker thoughts, he truly wished he could step out of the stream of time and give vent to the frustrations that plagued his spark. Frustrations like being made to wait three hours after he had given a specific deadline. Had he been a cruel leader, all three of them would have been giving their reports from the infirmary—if and when their parts had been repaired enough.

Optimus looked up from the report one more time, optics scanning over the two Autobots and the human liaison. Ratchet and Wheeljack stood stock still, optics locked onto their leader with respect and perhaps a touch of expectation. Had he not known any better, he would have mistaken them as inanimate statues. Lydia stood on Ratchet's shoulder, her breathing even and steady to his receptors. Her face was schooled to perfect military blankness, a look he had seen time and again on Lennox and Epps when facing decisions from their superiors. Only the slight acceleration in her heartbeat betrayed her sense of expectance.

He looked back down at the datapad one final time before slowly lowering it to his desk. "I am not certain I agree with this proposal."

Lydia let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. _At least he didn't flat out refuse,_ she thought, allowing herself a touch of victory. But only a touch, before she set her mind to negotiating. This was what she did, after all.

"I admit that the concept isn't exactly in the ballpark of what you requested," she started off. "However, if we succeed, a large chunk of expenses could be eliminated."

"Safety won't be an issue, what with me and Ratchet overseeing the operation," Wheeljack put in, right on queue. Sticking with the rehearsed presentation. "Extraction of the much needed ores should proceed in a quick fashion. One trip should take no more than a standard human week, especially with my new source sensor drill. Don't worry," the mech put in quickly, holding up both hands with palms facing outward in response to his leader's suddenly raised eyebrow plates. "It's been fully tested. Only blew the wall out of the lab once and that was only because I slightly miscalculated the current magnetic polarity of the planet. That's been fixed."

Lydia bit the inside of her cheek until it felt like it was going to bleed. That bit about the new drill hadn't been part of the rehearsed presentation. In fact, she and Ratchet had pointedly told the mech that if he brought up the flaws in the design, they would both personally rip out his vocal processor. Apparently, Wheeljack either didn't care, or thought that his defense and fix of the problem didn't count as a flaw anymore.

"So stated in your report," Optimus replied, optics narrowing slightly. Whether it was from a lingering annoyance, or from slight amusement at this obviously rehearsed 'hard sale' as the humans would call it, he wasn't certain. He turned his stare on Lydia. "And you believe your government would agree with this?"

"Well, my side of the government would jump up and down and yell 'Yippy Skippy, we don't have to pay for it anymore,'" She smirked a bit, doing her best to salvage the proposal. Doing her best not to start screaming and throwing things. At Wheeljack. That, she would leave to Ratchet later. "It's the non-budget side of the committee that would take some convincing. But I think they would agree quickly if you would agree with the terms presented in our report."

Again, the Autobot leader glanced back down at the report, and Lydia felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. In her time with NEST, she felt fairly competent in reading Autobot mannerisms. And judging by his actions, she knew that Optimus was wracking his processors for a polite way to reject their proposal. She flicked a glance at Wheeljack, and found the same already turned in her direction. Both turned to Ratchet then, tossing the proverbial negotiation ball into his hands.

Ratchet sighed, the sound more aggravated than resigned. "Prime," he began, stepping forward and planting both hands on the desk.

Lydia gave a bit of a startled yelp, not expecting the medic to lean down like that. Wheeljack reached out quickly, plucking the human from Ratchet's shoulder before she fell and safely depositing her on the desk. She muttered a quiet thanks, got a wink in return. And both fell silent at the glower turned on them from the Chief Medical Officer.

Ratchet looked back to his leader, blue optics boring into blue optics. "Prime, we need this," he said simply. "I don't know how much longer we can continue the war without provisions. This isn't belittling the human support we've received. Far from it, actually. There isn't one among us that hasn't been thankful for the assistance. Be that as it may, we cannot continue to take resources from this planet. Not in the mass quantities that we require. And certainly not with the continued arrival of Decepticon reinforcements."

"And the necessary materials can be found in the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter," Optimus replied evenly, turning that question into a very somber statement.

"Actually, the best materials are in the Alpha Centauri system, just a few light years away—"

"Yes," Ratchet declared bluntly to Prime, gruffly cutting off Wheeljack without any remorse. "Not to mention a distinct tactical advantage if we can get some sensor arrays in place in some of those rocks. The earlier we know the Decepticons are coming, the faster we can respond."

"I would settle for knowing just what on this planet Megatron finds so valuable, now that the cube is no more," Optimus muttered, leaning back in his seat. His optics swept over the team one last time. "The matter has merit, but bears further investigation. Lydia, what would the human governments require from us?"

She had to hide a smile, feeling that tingling of anticipation in her fingertips. Again, he hadn't said no. He hadn't said yes, either. But a yes was looking more and more like a possibility. "I'm sure some of the greedy monsters on the committee would demand a cut of the ore extracted. Probably would ask for a human team to accompany you on the mission. Not to mention there would be another push to get you to share your technology with them, all under the guise of 'scientific cooperation' rather than weapon information. We all know different, though. And the CDC might want to review the retrieved ore to make certain no organism deadly to humans are present…"

She had been ticking off each point on a finger... and stopped, voice trailing off. They were all three staring at her, a rather unfriendly look in their optics. Staring at her like she'd just said 'All Hail Megatron' or something equally as suicidal. "What?"

"You mean to tell me that the humans think they can claim the asteroids?" Ratchet snapped incredulously. "Absolutely not. We've stayed out of the areas you humans requested, and stayed off the moon at that same request. But this is just unacceptable. It's—"

"Calm down, Ratchet," Optimus silenced him with an upraised hand. "Both Earth and Moon are covered in our treaty with your governments. However, aside from agreeing to help in keeping any monumentally damaging asteroids from striking the Earth—I believe you humans call it the 'Armageddon Contingency'—there are no other asteroid clauses."

"Hey, I'm on your side, remember?" Lydia put in defensively. "I agree with you that there really isn't a reason for you to have to clear your activities off planet with the government. However, that's not going to stop some of the dilholes in Congress from trying. I'm doing my job in pointing out the opposition and possible ways to circumvent it."

"And that is appreciated," Optimus replied, rising to his feet. "As I said, this matter bears further thought and investigation. I cannot make a decision right now without considering how many Autobots we can spare for security on this project. Believe me, if we start to move towards the asteroid belt in this star system, the Decepticons will not be far behind. I need to consult with Ironhide and… others."

No one said anything to that, letting the silence hang for a minute or two. Even Lydia knew enough to know that the word 'others' was supposed to have been replaced with a single name: Jazz. The loss of their second-in-command was still fresh in their sparks, and Lydia did not begrudge them on that. For a race that could live longer than a star, having lost one of their own just one human year ago must have felt like a second ago. She swallowed hard, feeling her own pangs of memory at the thought.

Optimus broke the silence first. "Dismissed," he said simply.

The doors closed behind him, this time with a hushed whisper instead of the deafening thud of before. Yet it felt like once more he had taken the warmth and the life from the room with him when he exited. Lydia felt no sense of shame this time as she had earlier in the morning. A kind of empathy filled her heart, making her chest ache all the more. He mourned the loss of his team mate, of his friend. She still mourned the loss of Spiral and Eclipse, two that had died on the same day as Jazz, fighting the same battle. Now it felt like she had picked up the mourning cry for this Jazz as well. It wasn't a feeling she was accustomed to, and yet it seemed right somehow.

"That went well," Ratchet said softly, this time meaning it. Stealing her words from earlier in the day.

"You think?" Lydia asked, returning the favor and tossing a smirk at the medic.

Ratchet laughed, extending his hand down for her to climb onto. They turned to go, falling into their own thoughts as the doors parted.

"I have a question, Lydia," Wheeljack called after them, halting their progress. "What is a dilhole?"


	9. Chapter 9 Departing

A/N: I can't thank you enough for the kind reviews and the private messages. The ideas are just fantastic, and I love love LOVE that you all care enough about the story to help me make it better. That's the best kind of praise that a writer can have. :D

Arcee may be a wee touch out of character in this chapter, and I apologize about that. I was trying to figure out how two very tough, very confident, military femmes would react to each other… especially when they are close friends… and especially when one thought the other was acting like a fool. The only background I have to work with for Arcee is the Transformers Movie from 1986. I'm still waiting to get a hold of more of the original series. So please be kind. ::whimpers and hides behind Ratchet::

As ever, I do not own Transformers, or pretend to, or am I planning to make any money off of this. Just entertainment, folks!

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"GRIMLOCK!"

The shrilly yelled word was enough all on its own to have marines and Autobots alike diving for cover or reaching for weapons. Epps sputtered out the coffee he had been drinking, Lennox dropping the report from his fingers. Later, he would regret that action as the remainder of Epps coffee joined the report on the floor, soaking it through. It wasn't the report he would regret. It was the waste of something so vital as coffee on something as frustrating as Liaison-what's-his-nuts recent list of demands.

Both Lennox and Epps would later find the coffee and the report, shed tears over the coffee, and use the report as compost in the base's new garden. But right at that moment, twin Sig Sauer automatic pistols replaced both coffee and paper in their hands, the guns aimed directly down the hallway in a two-fisted grip. What they saw made their eyes go wide.

"MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!" Epps screamed, diving behind a packing crate… just before the hallway literally exploded.

Grimlock, in his Tyrannosaurs Rex form, literally blew through the flimsy drywall that made up the human-sized hallways inside the main hangar. The floor shook from the impact of his footsteps, his long metal tail flicking side to side with his annoyance. The bot literally could care less what that appendage smashed through, the angry twitch of it saying as much. With one exception, of course. Somehow, that massive tail managed to skip right over the form of a human female running behind him on purple heels. More than that, the tail seemed to bat aside any debris from falling on the woman.

"GRIMLOCK!" Lydia screeched again. "Give it back, right now! Or so help me—"

The rest of the words were lost as the gigantic bot ignored the open hangar doors, preferring to stride right through the solid metal wall nearest him. Steel groaned and screamed in its death throws, ripping apart like so much tissue paper. The sound of many a human crying in terror filled the hangar from outside, bright summer sunshine blasting through the torn wall.

Lydia just ran right through the hole, leaping over debris. Epps and Lennox peered out from behind the crates, exchanging an incredulous look. "Ummm… did it look to you like Grimlock had a _briefcase_ in his hands?" Epps asked.

"Looked that way to me," Lennox replied, eyes about as wide as his second-in-command's. "Better let Optimus know. This doesn't look like it's going to end well for anyone without some serious help from a bigger bot."

"Right," Epps put in, pulling the radio from his belt and making the call. Eyes still staring in disbelief at the hole in the wall…

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Me, Grimlock, like Lydia," the bot said without slowing his pace. "Lydia not make Grimlock feel dumb. Me know you not leave without brown case. Me take. Keep Lydia this way."

"What's with this idea that I'm not coming back?" She screamed after him. "I promise I'll come back, Grimlock. I need those reports."

"Grimlock not so sure. Other human budget persons leave to meeting on plane. Other human budget persons not come back. Grimlock not taking chance with Lydia."

_Great, I've just been adopted by a robotic alien dinosaur with separation anxiety! My life couldn't possible become any weirder. _"But they didn't like you," she tried again, breath heaving in and out of her chest. She wasn't sure how much longer she could keep up this pace, especially in her heels. "I like you, buddy. When have I ever broken a promise to you?"

The giant T-rex stopped suddenly, head tilting to the side as it considered her last query. Lydia skidded to a halt, almost careening into Grimlock's foot. He turned his massive head towards her, and for the life of her she swore she saw something akin to tears glittering in his optics. The tiny front arms—tiny by Autobot standards, though she knew each was longer than she was tall—appeared to toy with the briefcase, almost like a child shuffling his feet when feeling sad.

"Awwww, come here, buddy," she said soothingly, reaching a hand up. Obediently, the monstrous body turned, Grimlock's head lowering all the way to the ground. "You know I wouldn't play you like that. I'm coming home."

Lydia stroked her fingers over his snout, always surprised at how warm the metal felt on all the Autobots. Never cold, never harsh. Just warm, like their sparks radiated heat throughout them in the same way that human blood warmed her body. Grimlock made a sound deep in his vocal processor, something similar to a sigh and a whine… and she swore for a moment that he shook beneath her touch. Like he was afraid.

Afraid she wouldn't come back.

"I will vouch for her promise," a deep voice called, causing both Grimlock and Lydia to look up in unison.

Optimus Prime stood a few feet away, hands on his hips. Behind him, Ironhide deactivated his cannons, sliding the massive things back to wherever it was that all Autobots hit their weaponry. She knew from reviewing footage of Decepticon attacks that Prime carried a sword and that Ratchet had a pretty wicked looking gun of his own. However, for the life of her, she had no idea where those went when not in use. Not her place to ask, she knew. Yet, it didn't stop her from wondering from time to time.

Grimlock rose to his complete height again, nearly taller than the Autobot leader. "Prime is leader. If Prime say promise is good, then Grimlock listen," he turned the full weight of his stare down on Lydia. "But if Lydia not come back, Grimlock will come find. Me, Grimlock, make promise, too."

The big Dinobot carefully put the briefcase on the ground, turning with surprising grace given his reckless rampage from a moment before, and walked away. Lydia picked up the case and clutched it to her chest. Her eyebrows felt like they were trying their best to merge with her hairline. She couldn't help the startled look on her face.

"Beauty and the Beast," Ironhide said, smirking. "Who would have thought…"

Lydia slanted a look at the Weapon's Specialist. "He only likes me because I bought those gigantic, four foot tall, sparkly crayons for him. He can actually do his reports with them."

"It's not the gift that counts," Optimus replied, still gazing after Grimlock's retreating form. "It's the fact that you did something for him to make him feel stronger, smarter. The other Dinobots respect him all the more for it. It wouldn't matter to him if you had given him cheap, colored wax or the rarest of inks. It was that you took the time to consider his needs."

Lydia shrugged, feeling all self-conscious at the rare praise from him. Secretly, in a part of herself that she'd never admit to anyone, she utterly glowed with pride. Optimus was generous with his complements and praise when and where it was due—to those that he felt were part of his team. Rarely, if ever, had she heard him praise a government liaison.

"Just doing my job," she muttered, trying hard not to blush.

She wasn't sure if Optimus was smirking at her reaction or not. She thought he was. It was hard to tell just by staring at his profile. "Of course," he said, turning blue optics down to her, his voice turning serious for a moment. "You do realize I will have to offline him if you do not return. He will keep his promise. He will come after you."

"Oh, trust me, I get it," She said, tossing a glance back at the ruined side of the hangar. Even now Hound and Brawn were holding a metal plate flat against the remains of the wall, Cliffjumper welding it into place. "Skids and Mudflap both locked themselves into the brig earlier today. They thought I was leaving because of the last prank they played on me."

"The air fresheners?" Ironhide asked.

Lydia nodded. "I spent the first half of the morning trying to explain to them—through the brig bars, no less—what a Senate committee meeting was, and that I wasn't leaving because of them. Took me damn near three hours to get them to come out."

"Did you really have to let them out?"

"Ironhide!"

The big mech flinched. "Sorry. I knew something had to be up with those two when nothing exploded this morning. No morning ever goes this smoothly."

Lydia glanced back at the hangar wall. "You call this 'smoothly?'"

He met her stare, dead even. "I've got stories to confirm otherwise."

She held up her hands, taking a step back. "I believe you. I believe you. No need to prove it."

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was still another three hours after the so-called "Grimlock Incident" before she made her way to her car. Not even three in the afternoon and already she felt the tendrils of fatigue dragging at her eyelids. And still she had a four hour flight—in business class no less—before she reached D.C. Lydia sighed, leaning back against the butter-soft leather seat, closing her eyes. "The committee is so paying for an upgrade to first class on this flight," she muttered darkly.

Sighing again, she reached for the key, switching on the ignition. The sigh turned into a sound of pure, guilty pleasure as the German engine turned over. The sound of it was music to her ears, a cross somewhere between a sexy purr and menacing growl. The car was pure attitude made solid, and she reveled in it. Her fingers drifted over the steering wheel, caressing down to the gear shift, where they closed tightly. As if in response, the car gave a little tremor, almost as if it was expressing its own delight at having her back behind the wheel.

Lydia froze at that tremor, her eyes going wide before narrowing in realization. "Arcee?" she asked darkly.

The car did not respond.

Lydia crossed her arms over her chest, staring directly at the radio. "Arcee, girl, don't play with me today. I'm not in the mood."

She thought the car gave a slight sigh of its own. Otherwise, it remained immobile.

"Do you think I'm that stupid?" Lydia continued. "My car doesn't give little tremors of pleasure. And trust me, I would know the difference. I love my car. I gave my entire life savings at the time to purchase her. I know all the ins and outs, the performance levels and every itty bitty noise and movement of my baby."

The car was silent another long moment, before a defeated and rather familiar femme voice came from the speakers. "Seriously? I gave a tremor?"

Lydia smirked, leaning in towards the radio to whisper. "Like a certain mech, himself, had just caressed your chassis."

The interior of the car heated up a couple of degrees. Not enough to cause her discomfort, but enough for Lydia to realize that, had Arcee been human, she would have turned redder than the paint job. "You promised you wouldn't tell!" hissed the speakers.

"I didn't," Lydia laughed, leaning back. "It's just fun to pick on you."

"Bitch."

"Back at ya, girlfriend."

Laughter poured from the speakers this time. "I knew there was a reason I liked you. You give back just as good as you get."

"Two of a kind," Lydia nodded, patting the steering wheel. Her smile started to wilt a bit. "So what was the plan? I get in and you hold me hostage, maybe drive me in circles until I miss my meeting? You do realize that if I don't go to these things, they're going to fire me. Then you'll have to have a new liaison."

"But at least you'd be safe. You'd still be with us."

Lydia shook her head, completely perplexed by Arcee's reaction. Truth be told, she was completely dumbfounded by the reaction of almost every single Autobot on base this morning. From Prime on down to Grimlock. Only Ratchet's reaction had been expected.

He'd gruffly ignored her when she'd come to say her goodbye, muttering about too much work and too little time to chat. Then, when she'd been half-way out the door, he'd followed behind like a mother hen, rattling off demands for this and that and stating quite bluntly what he would do to certain committee members if they so much as batted an eyelash at his needs.

She'd turned at the last minute, almost causing the medic to stumble rather than step on her. Smiling widely, she placed a kiss on her palm and then pressed that palm to his foot plate. "I'm going to miss you, too," she'd grinned. "But I'm a big girl. I can handle a week at the symposium all by myself. Cross my heart."

Of course, he'd grumbled about her reading too much into things and about stupid human phrases in general—like how ridiculous it would be for a human to implant a metal cross into their heart organ in order to prove their sincerity. One's word _should_ be good enough without having to go through such drastic measures—before stomping off. But she'd caught him watching her until she'd turned the corner out of sight. Then her phone had rang, the Twins informing her that they had brigged themselves and whatever it was that they did to make her want to leave, they were very, very sorry about it.

The rest of the day, as they say, was history.

"Okay, what gives?" she demanded. "Seriously, I'm getting a little annoyed at everyone's freaking attitude today. It's a symposium. It's not like I'm leaving the country."

The car beneath her jolted slightly, and Lydia got the impression that she'd just offended her friend. "We're treating you like one of the team," Arcee said flatly. "You should feel honored that we're all that concerned. Prime doesn't let any one of us go off alone. Not Lennox, not Sam, not even Ironhide. Anyone with us is a potential target to the Decepticons, Lydia. You come onto this base, befriend us all, and now expect us to simply wave and say 'Have fun, bring me back a postcard or something?' Please, now _you're _acting like _I'm_ stupid."

She was caught off guard by the femme's words, truly struck speechless. It took her a moment to work enough moisture back into her mouth to reply. "I'm part of the team?" she asked dumbly and the blanched at the all-too familiar sound of an Autobot about to transform.

In the blink of an eye, she was sitting on her rump on the pavement, Arcee looming above her. "Uh, yeah, dumbass," the femme retorted tartly. "What, do you need me to tattoo our emblem on your forehead before you believe me?"

"Hey," Lydia put in, suddenly feeling like a complete moron. She rose to her feet, not bothering to try and dust off her suit. The shoes and jacket were almost ruined anyway from Grimlock's chase earlier. "Cut me some slack. It's not like you all are real receptive to us government types."

Arcee put a hand on her hip, looking down at her. "Given what we've had to work with in the past, can you blame us?"

"Given what I've heard you all did to past liaisons, can you blame me for being thrown off guard?" Lydia threw back, her hands on her own hips. "You all are such a tight-knit group, and I don't blame you for that. You've been through more hell than I could ever begin to imagine, so I try to stay out of the way and make things a bit easier for you. I never expected to be more than a light annoyance to you all."

"Well, guess what?" The bot snapped. "You're more than a liaison. You're a friend to most of us—including Prime—" she added quickly, trying to stave off that look of disbelief on the human's face before it took root there—"even if he doesn't say it out loud, himself. Do you realize he and Ratchet almost called Skyfire back from his mission, just to take you to D.C. and back safely? And don't give me that look, Lydia DeMarco. Prime wouldn't spare a second thought for you outside of his programming to protect, nevertheless bother to have a conversation with you, if you weren't an ally. So turn off whatever faulty sequence you have running in your processors that refuses to let you draw anyone close to your spark and let us all in already!"

"What are you, my guardian?" Lydia fired back, red-faced with shame, knowing that the femme was right. Aside from pranks and basic chatter, she had really only ever opened up to Ratchet. And that had been a onetime thing out in the middle of the desert.

Truth be told, she _was_ afraid to let them all in. Could she really go through that again, become close with another group of warriors and soldiers, only to watch them die? Granted, it was a lot harder to kill the Autobots than it was to kill a human. One couldn't simply walk over to, say, Ironhide, and pop a cap in his head. Well, one could, but it would only serve to piss off the weapon's specialist, not end his existence. But still… death was death. And it was always so much harder on the living.

Arcee crossed her arms over her chest, the fire in her optics fading slightly, dimmed by a touch of bitterness. "No, but don't think I didn't ask for the job. Femme's aren't cut out for guardian work."

"You could have fooled me," Lydia muttered, the flame in her own eyes puttering out at the true look of dismay on her friend's face. It was hard to stay mad when her gut was twisting with guilt instead of rage. "That tongue-lashing you just gave me could have stripped the plating right off of Megatwit."

Arcee jerked as if someone had hit her with a stun bolt. "Did you just say Megatwit?"

This time Lydia's flush was pure embarrassment. "Sorry, didn't mean to say that part out loud. But yeah, that's kinda my personal name for him. And you don't even want to know what I call Starscream."

Arcee put up a valiant attempt to hold onto her anger and push back the laughter. In the end, the laughter won. "I probably don't," she grinned. "Just don't let Optimus hear you say that."

"I'm stupid, remember? Not suicidal," Lydia quipped, tilting her head to the side, a smile slowly working its way onto her lips again. "We good now, or do we need to fight some more?"

Arcee chuckled. "Yeah, we're good. I said my peace. Just stop acting like your processors are wired backward," the femme transformed back into the sleek red Porsche 911. "Give you a ride to the airfield?"


	10. Chapter 10 Revelation

A/N: Using some more suggestions in this chapter. :D I can't express how much I adore suggestions and reviews. They always make me happy to see, and helps me keep the story fresh and exciting.

In this chapter, I took some advice from one of Lord Destroyer's reviews. (Previously I had used advice from Isis the Sphinx and wanted to give some shout-out love for that! :D) I wanted to show that not everyone was happy with the idea of the Cybertronians (be they Autobot or Decepticon) remaining here on Earth, especially those that lost loved ones to the war, or were personally harmed by it. We have to admit that a few of us humans can be very, very close-minded at times. I think this is something that isn't shown too often in fics, simply because we all love our bots ::clings to Ratchet and Jazz and Prowl:: and can't imagine anyone that wouldn't. Well, I had to imagine someone that didn't love them. The result is in the story.

As ever, I don't own anything but my OCs. I don't plan on making money or claiming what is not mine, etc…

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"Black-blooded creatures," Lydia muttered, clenching her hands around the handle of her briefcase until she thought she would crumple the supple leather into nothing.

The day had not gone well thus far. Only half the day's first session was complete, and already she was fuming, wanting nothing more than to rip off the heads of her fellow committee members. The outright stupidity of some of the requests had left her staring with mouth agape. How anyone with two brain cells to rub together thought that an add campaign to make people feel better about the prescription drugs they were taking—completely unnecessary drugs, or so it seemed to her—was more important than repairing and aiding their allies was simply beyond her. She ground her teeth audibly, thinking about the coming vote this afternoon to decide if the five hundred million dollar advertisement campaign was going to move up on the priority list.

She glared at the closed double doors behind her, torn between walking away or walking back into the committee chamber and kicking Senator Glickson in the head. The smarmy Texan was probably in there right now, greasing the palms of the Senate Committee with the slick money the drug companies obviously paid him to push their agenda forward.

"Let it go, Phoenix. Physically kicking a Senator's ass isn't going to accomplish much."

It was the voice that did it, that had her snapping to attention out of complete reflex. Lydia executed a flawless military turn before she knew what she was doing, her cap coming off her head to be tucked into her elbow, her briefcase placed on the floor without a sound. One hand rose in proper salute. The whole maneuver took less than two or three seconds, her body standing at rigid attention, eyes facing forward and staring at nothing and everything at the same time.

Captain Joshua Eddard smirked, crossing to stand in front of his former subordinate. The limp in his stride was barely visible and did nothing to diminish the air of command. It radiated from his six foot frame, dripped from his voice as if he had started shouting orders the moment he pulled free of his mother's womb. His ice grey eyes, so pale as to almost appear silver, stared into hers out of an angular Nordic face.

There were new lines to that strong, broad face, she noted. Around the eyes that used to terrify and inspire her all at once, around a firm mouth that could compliment and curse in the same breath. There was a time when the sight of her former commander made things low and tight in her body, made her imagine evenings on the deck of the carrier. Out on float in the middle of the ocean, where the night was so black as to be nearly solid and there were more than enough shadows to conceal the world. One night, in particular, had almost crossed the line between commander and subordinate. Massive amounts of willpower, and a great, deep respect for the sanctity of his marriage, had them both saying their goodnights to each other and returning to their bunks alone.

"At ease, Lieutenant," Eddard chuckled, returning the salute with a bit of a smirk. "You don't have to salute me anymore."

"Old habits die hard."

"That they do," he nodded, eyes drifting past her towards the closed doors. "But I see riding a desk hasn't tamed your temper at all. Let me guess, your target is the old man from Texas? He seems to be a favorite source of frustration these days."

Lydia gave a lopsided grin, relaxing and picking up her briefcase. "Good, I'm glad I'm not the only one that wants to pound that bastard's head into the wall. Repeatedly. Constantly. Continuously."

Eddard chuckled again, looking back at Lydia. She was still the same, he noted, and yet something was markedly different. It was something he couldn't quite place his finger on. The medals and commendations of valor shone like fine jewels against the dark blue material of her dress uniform, gleaming like armor over her heart. He was willing to bet that the white dress shirt beneath her jacket was starched the point of becoming cardboard. Always a stickler for detail, his Phoenix. It was what had made her such an incredible pilot. It was also what made him miss having her under his command.

"More than likely, he'd press charges," he said, shaking away that line of thought. She was under Captain Lennox now, even if only by way of formality. "Get you to spend the rest of your career in prison if you so much as breathe in his direction. I mean it, Phoenix. That man is dangerous, on more than one level. He's got some powerful supporters, both in Congress and outside it."

Lydia glanced back over her shoulder, almost as if she could penetrate the doors with her eyes alone and stab the man in question through the heart. "It would almost be worth it," she sighed wistfully. "Maybe even take pictures of the ass-kicking to show Ratchet and Ironhide. They'd appreciate the sentiment, I'm sure."

Something passed through Eddard's eyes, something she caught the tail end of as she turned back. Whatever it was, it wasn't pleasant. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing that can be helped at the moment," he replied, glancing at his watch. "Listen, I have my own slice of Senate hell beginning in fifteen minutes. Come by the house tonight. I'll throw a few steaks on the grill and have the beers on ice. We'll catch up."

A warning bell started to sound in the back of her mind, spurned to life by what she had seen in his eyes a moment ago. It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse, to demand an explanation that she had no right to even ask of him. He was her former commander, in some ways was still a mentor to her, and that alone made her hold her tongue.

She pushed back the nagging feeling, nodding her head once. "I'd like that."

~*~*~*~*~*~

She was acting the part of a total fool, and she knew it. For the fifth time that afternoon, she stood before the mirror of her hotel bathroom, staring at yet another chosen outfit and trying not to frown. Part of her wished that Arcee was there with her, partly to tell her to stop acting like an idiot, and partly because of the femme's hologram projection system. What she wouldn't give in that moment to have Arcee project a 3-D image of herself in the outfit, so that Lydia could truly see if the jeans she wore did indeed made her ass look fat.

Lydia chuckled at the thought, wondering if her would-be best friend would even consider doing that. There was a lot she didn't know about the femme's past, a lot of water they had yet to cross in the myriad details of each other's existence. Still, though, she thought of Arcee as the closest thing to a best friend she had anymore. And while she was close with Ratchet, their relationship went beyond the boundaries of friends and yet wasn't more than that.

It was hard to put her feelings for the medic into thoughts, nevertheless words. She was fond of the gruff old bot, probably more than she should be, truth be told. Her mother would have called it a higher, purer love. A feeling that transcended the flesh and stood for something more than physical lust. Lydia wasn't so sure. She wasn't quite the romantic dreamer her mother had been, figuring that she inherited a generous splash of skepticism from her dad to balance herself out. Though if she listened to Ratchet, she held more than her fair share of dreamy-eyed poetic nonsense in her processors. That thought was enough to have her laughing aloud again.

Yes, she would admit that what she felt for Ratchet was an attraction of sorts, but not something that had ever, ever strayed near the realm of the physical. She just had to think about how she felt when she stared into Joshua's eyes to know _that _much.

A murmured sound, something between a sigh of pure enjoyment and a moan of utter embarrassment escaped her lips. The man was married, for crying out loud. Had been married for ten years before she had come under his command. Seven years serving together had led to more cold showers than she had thought possible. And now she was going to waltz right into his house, share food and wine with his wife, and try very hard not to drool all over the table.

God, she needed to get laid. It had been more than a year since she'd taken a lover, choosing to avoid that particular possibility ever since the events of Mission City. Unconsciously, her hand strayed to the thick scar tissue surrounding her right arm, fingertips running over the rough grooves and hard valleys in her skin. It was horrible to look at, even worse to feel, and quickly she pulled her hand away. Now _that_ was her proverbial cold shower. All she had to do was touch her arm, even through the sleeve of her blouse, and all thoughts of sex fled to the recesses of her psyche.

No one was going to want to see her naked now, nevertheless touch her. No matter what Arcee said the contrary. "Battle scars are only hot on human men, Arcee," she whispered aloud, remembering that conversation with crystal clarity. "That's one thing our races don't have in common. You can show your battle wounds and have mechs lining up around the block to ask you out. These kind of scars on a human woman has the males running away as fast as they can."

Arcee had responded with something along the lines of kicking these so-called males for distance on her account. A femme ought to be proud of her war wounds, the bot had stated indignantly. It showed her love, her loyalty, her dedication to her principles. What male—Cybertronian or human—wouldn't want those qualities in a mate?

Maybe Arcee was right. Maybe she did need to do something more than crunch numbers at the base. All on its own, her mind flashed to the image of one Sergeant Robert Epps and the man's amazing inability to hold onto his clipboard when she was around. A little spike of attraction went through her, a thrill that sped her heart and had her bouncing on her toes a moment. Now there was a male—err man—that she would like to spend a while getting to know… biblically and otherwise.

The alarm on her cell phone went off, shaking her out of her fantasy about Epps and a dark corner made for two. She checked the time, cursing softly. One last glance in the mirror revealed the Gucci black leather loafers on her feet, the pressed dark jeans, and the soft lavender, long-sleeved knit top. Long black hair was pulled up in a high ponytail, flat ironed straight and sleek. She added a long rope of silver with her favorite Mayan calendar charm around her neck, matching silver hoop earrings. The black leather jacket completed the look. Nothing sexy or formal, but nothing too slovenly, either.

"Relax, Lydia," she told her reflection. "It's just dinner with Joshua and Nadine. You're going to laugh at the jokes, chew with your mouth closed, maybe find out what is bugging Josh, and come home. Alone. End of list."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Lydia checked the address again, glancing up at the ranch-style house with its long and winding driveway, it's perfectly trimmed bright green lawn and hedges. It was a cute house, something that she used to envision herself living in when she retired. Now, her mind could only conjure up images of beige stucco and cactus plants, lava rock covering the lawn instead of emerald blades of St. Augustine grass. She smirked at that, realizing that somewhere along the way, she had resolved herself to spending the rest of her life on the Diego Garcia base with the Autobots. And then retiring to a desert community close by.

Shaking away the thought, she tilted her head to the side, regarding the home once more. It was the lack of flowers that bothered her, the lack of any cutesy animal statuary or a birdbath laden with water and seed. Nadine Eddard had been a "girl's girl," or so appeared that way the few times Lydia had met her. Blonde and beautiful, petite, dressed in pink and slathered in artfully placed makeup. She had been the perfect officer's wife, never complaining about moving from base to base, from country to country. Always with an open home to her husband's team, always ready with fresh baked treats and homemade dinners.

They—Eclipse, Shadow, and herself—had often referred to Nadine as their "mom away from mom," what with the tender care she always showed. Nadine hadn't been more than ten or so years older than Lydia, herself, and yet the woman had had more mothering instinct in her little finger than Lydia had in her own body. It was something she secretly envied and adored all at the same time.

Her eyebrows drew together as she turned her rental car towards the driveway. There was nothing about this place that attested to Nadine Eddard living there.

Joshua met her at the door before she could knock, a smile spreading across his full lips. "Phoenix. Glad you could make it. Come in."

Her returned smile was somewhat reserved, the thrill of his eyes on hers dimmed somewhat. There was more apprehension in her than lust, that warning bell from before ringing all the louder in her head. Something was just... off... with the man. "Captain," she greeted, stepping in. She offered the bottle of wine in her hand. "I went with red, hoping that Nadine would forgive me. I know how she likes her whites, but a good steak just needs a good red to go with it."

Joshua's smile wilted a bit as he accepted the wine. "Well, that's something we don't have to worry about now. And you don't have to call me Captain anymore. We're not in uniform, and you aren't under my command."

Lydia's smile vanished, replaced with concern. "What do you mean we don't have to worry about that? Did something happen to Nadine?"

He shrugged a shoulder, looking at the wine as if he was truly interested in the label information. "She left me," he said, struggling for some kind of nonchalance and failing.

The underlying pain in his words had her reaching out, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, god, Josh. I'm so sorry."

Again, he shrugged, turning and heading for the kitchen. "It happened three years ago. She's doing well from what our sons say. Got herself a house in Florida now, living with some man named Gerard."

She nodded, not really knowing what to say to that. "That sucks," she said at last, smirking as Joshua jerked a bit in surprise at her statement. "She should be living in a shack, pinning endlessly for the mistake she made in leaving you."

That had him laughing, laughing until he was almost coughing. "For Pete's sake, Phoenix," he grinned, opening the wine to let it breathe. "Where the hell were you three years ago when I needed to hear that?"

"On your flight line, dumbass," she retorted, taking a seat at the breakfast bar. She accepted the beer he tossed her way, opening it and raising it in salute. "To dumbasses who should know better to ask for help when they need it."

"To dumbasses," he grinned, tapping his beer to hers and taking a long pull of it.

"Seriously," she continued, stripping off her jacket and tossing it across the bar. It was just like the times before, she thought. Just two old officers knocking back brews and swapping insults. And yet that warning bell wouldn't turn itself off. "Why didn't you say anything? You know that the team would have had your back."

Josh shrugged again. "Just didn't seem like it was worth mentioning. Nadine had made up her mind at that point. There wasn't anything else to say. We'd been having problems for years before that. I guess she just got tired of waiting for me to come home, worrying that if she kissed me goodbye, it would be the last time."

Lydia shook her head, aching to ask for more details, knowing that there had to be more than he was letting on. You didn't stay married for fifteen years and then just decide you hated the military. That didn't sound like Nadine at all. "Military life isn't for everyone," she said diplomatically. "Sometimes they think they can hack it, and sometimes they can't. Takes the rare few to stick it out for a career and not bail after the first tour. Still, this kind of thing sucks no matter which way you look at it. And I'm sorry."

"And you and me are career, aren't we," he said.

"Looks like. I've been doing this so long now that I don't think I know how to do anything else."

"Do you miss it?" he asked suddenly, staring down into his beer. "The flying, I mean. Do you miss it?"

It was her turn to look down at her beer. "Yeah," she said, voice going tight. "I miss it so bad it hurts."

"Me, too. Flying with you guys what's got me through the worst of the divorce. Loosing Shadow and Eclipse like that…" he shook his head, anger starting to heat up his voice. "That was bad enough. But loosing my flight status due to that fucking _alien_, that was insult to injury. No pun intended."

Her head snapped up, the final piece clicking into place. The look that had passed through his eyes at the mention of Ratchet, at the mention of one of those _aliens. _Did he really blame all Cybertronians for what happened to Lydia and himself, to the team? No, he couldn't. That wasn't possible. That wasn't the kind of intolerance that Captain Joshua Eddard had instilled in those beneath him. Wasn't he the one that imposed a higher ethical standard than the Air Force required on those serving with him? Didn't he give a lecture to the team time and again on what would happen if one bullet went astray?

Every shot had to count. Every single one. That was his motto, his core rule. Because one never knew where that stray shot was going to end up. "Friendly fire" wasn't an option for the squads under Captain Eddard. He'd been shot down before on assignments, and always he'd taught his crew not to hate those that could have killed him. Was it different now that something non-human had shot him down, wounded him so that he couldn't fly anymore?

"Don't do that," she found herself saying softly. "Josh, don't blame them all for the actions of a few. You taught me not to hate a whole country for the actions of a handful of its population. This is no different."

Josh shook his head. "I don't blame all for what happened to us, to our team. No, I blame them for everything that has happened afterward," he said simply, as if they were discussing the stock reports or something. "I blame them for staying, for not leaving once that cube thing was destroyed."

The beer started to churn in her gut, turning bitter. "I think I should go."

"Don't tell me you don't feel the same way," he said, amazed at her reaction. "Phoenix, they almost killed you."

"_Starscream_ almost killed me," she corrected, sliding off the bar stool and picking up her jacket. "And my name is Lydia. I gave up the name Phoenix when I turned in my wings. You take care of yourself, Joshua. Thanks for the beer."

"Phoe—Lydia, wait," he reached out, hand grasping her right arm, pausing at the rough sensation of the scar tissue beneath the thin knit material of her sleeve. Instead of letting go, his hand tightened. "Hear me out, please. I didn't ask you here to fight. I'm sorry. Please, stay a while longer. At least give me a chance to pull my foot out of my mouth."

She bit her lower lip, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that staying was just going to cause more grief. Still, she owed it to him to let him explain, if for no other reason than the history between them. What was it Ratchet once said to her? _If you could turn off all the bad emotions, Lydia, you would never be able to appreciate the good._ She supposed that applied to history as well. And she really didn't want to give up the good memories, the rich history, she had of Joshua Eddard.

She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Okay," she said, setting her jacket back on the counter. "But you have to understand that I work with the Autobots in Diego Garcia. I consider a few of them my friends." She picked up her beer again.

"That's part of what I wanted to talk to you about," Joshua said gently, letting his hand slide down her arm gently, tracing over the scar tissue as if it wasn't there. His fingertips stopped when they reached hers, resting there. "I've been thinking about our careers, Lydia. Been thinking about it a lot."

He looked up at her then, watching her take a measured swallow of her beer. "Lydia, I want you to quit the Diego Garcia assignment and marry me."

She coughed beer all over the countertop.


	11. Chapter 11 Presentation

A/N: Thank you to all who were/are worried about Lydia and Josh. I'm a little worried about them, too. Lydia seems to have a mind of her own at times, and I'm just as shocked as everyone else as I type out what she says and does. And still I can't stop writing it. ::grins:: Thanks again for the reviews and the suggestions. They keep me going. 

As always and forever, I do not own anything but my OCs in this story. Transformers are owned by people with more money and more lawyers than I even want to think about. I'm not making money from this, so please don't sue me.

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She stared up at him, eyes wide. Never had she believed in a million years that she would be grateful for the fact that beer had just come out her nose, or that she had spewed perfectly good liqueur over beautiful Italian marble. Her throat burned with it, aching from the near-choking incident not a second ago. She tried to swallow, found that her tortured esophagus disagreed with the idea, and ended up coughing all over again. Lydia held up a hand when he attempted to come around the counter to help her.

_Stall. Stall. STALL! Don't let him touch you. Don't answer him just yet! _Her mind shrieked at her. Lydia lifted her other hand to her throat, rubbing gently. Did she really just hear him right? Had Joshua Eddard, the man that had given her more wet dreams than any movie star living or dead, just ask her to marry him? There would have been a time—not quite four months ago if she was going to be honest with herself—that she would have leapt over the counter and thrown him to the floor in answer. Her mouth would have taken his with the force of a hurricane, the full seven years of pent-up lust and desire pouring from her body into his in a heartbeat.

Hell, was it not an hour ago that she had tried on five different outfits just for him? Hadn't she stood before the mirror and ordered herself _not_ to think about this very thing? But that was before she learned of his divorce.

And that was before she learned his true feelings about anything not human.

"That wasn't quite the reaction I'd hoped for," Joshua said, hovering near her, a nervous grin flirting across his lips.

"That wasn't a question I was prepared for," she answered roughly, throat feeling as if she'd just gargled gasoline and then swallowed a match. "Uh, caught me a little off guard."

"Caught you?" he laughed, running a hand over his crew cut blonde hair. "I, ah, didn't know I was going to ask until I did."

He didn't, what? She looked up at him sharply. "Then why did you?"

Josh ran his hands over his hair again, eyes rolling over everything in the room except for her. When he didn't find the answers he was obviously looking for, he turned back to the counter next to her, gripping it hard enough that the marble gave little creaks in distress and his knuckles turned white. Those piercing eyes of his stared hard at the protesting countertop, almost as if he could glare it into silence.

"Because you were just about to walk away from me," he said softly, taking in a deep, shuddering breath. "And I had this feeling in my gut that if you walked out that door right then, I would never see you again. That thought almost killed me, Phoeni—_Lydia_. Look, call yourself whatever you want, but you'll always be my Phoenix. You'll always be my wingman."

_Wingman_, she thought. _Translation: I'll be the one he trusts with his life beyond a shadow of a doubt._ That was probably as close as he could come to saying the words "I love you." He and Nadine had said those three words all the time to one another, so much so that the team used to give him such crap about it—herself included. Considering the pain that still showed in his eyes, that nearly vibrated in every cell of his being, she doubted he believed in the word 'love' anymore. But trust, now, that was a word every military officer understood to the core of their being.

Trusting her with his life probably went beyond love, at least in his view of things. But was that her view, too?

She was flattered, of that there was little doubt. Flattered and a little star-struck at the idea of spending the rest of her life with him. Being Mr. and Mrs. Joshua Eddard. She could all but hear the dual snorts of derision from Ratchet and Arcee if she came home as Mrs. Joshua Eddard. The bots would probably associate that kind of name change to a claim of ownership and not a title of respect. After all, no one called Chromia 'Mrs. Ironhide,' or referred to Optimus Prime's sparkmate as 'Mrs. Prime.' Knowing Ratchet, he would rant for hours over why she needed to change her name at all just because she was mated. Her own name had been good enough for all the years of her life. Why change it now?

Of course, hearing all that from her favorite medic and her best friend would require her returning to Diego Garcia at all. And if she returned as Joshua's wife, she would never be able to call the place _home_ again. For some reason, that thought alone made her eyes brim with tears.

Josh cleared his throat. "You going to say something, Phoenix, or just let me wallow in my embarrassment, here?"

She jerked herself out of her thoughts, unconsciously reaching for a beer that wasn't there anymore. She suddenly needed to have something to do with her hands, suddenly wanted to pick up her phone and dial Ratchet's comm. number. The need to hear his voice, to hear him yelling at her for even considering this mating, was very close to a physical pain. This whole situation was so unreal, like a dream of some sort, and she needed the pragmatic medic to pull her back down into reality.

Funny, how in the midst of human to human contact, in the midst of a very real human relationship, she would need reassurance from an alien robot. Funny, how the human relationship now seemed like an unnerving dream, and the presence of Autobot friends felt like the reality that grounded her. She wasn't sure if that was ironic or terrifying.

"Sorry," she muttered, rubbing sweating palms on her jeans, grateful for the counter that hid them from view. "This is, ah, a lot to take in. I'm still processing it."

"Not exactly the answer I had in mind when I asked you."

She lifted an eyebrow, a bit of a smirk returning to her lips. "If you expected me to turn into Scarlet O'Hara and pull an 'Oh, Rhett' and fall into your arms, you really did ask the wrong woman to marry you."

"I did ask the wrong woman to marry me—seventeen years ago," he said flatly, either ignoring or outright missing her attempt at humor. "And look at all the years I've wasted since I've met you. Years we could have had together."

The smirk faded. God, he was saying all the right words, dammit. He was saying everything perfectly; the light in his grey-white eyes so sincere that it pulled at her heart as if it were made of iron and his voice was a magnet. There was a part of her that wanted to say yes, that knew she belonged with a man like him. Joshua was brave, strong, but compassionate, level-headed. He listened, took the feelings and needs of others into consideration when he made decisions. She'd heard rumors about how he'd turned around the Orbital Defense Grid project and made it into a force to be reckoned with, at least politically.

He was a good man, a kind man. She could have a loving, secure and safe future with him.

So why were her thoughts running back to a rundown desert base filled with substandard equipment? Why was she thinking about dodging wrenches and screeching at the top of her lungs at the most stubborn sentient she'd ever met? The headaches that plagued her almost daily around that place should have been enough to make her leap into Josh's arms. And there would be no more budget committee meetings, no more banging her head against corrupt senators only to loose time and again.

But there would be no more desert sunsets. No more laughing until she couldn't breathe at the latest pranks played by Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. And she wouldn't be able to stand beside Optimus Prime, elbowing him in the footplate to remind him to keep his mask of annoyance in place, when in actuality they were both struggling valiantly not to grin as Ironhide chased Bumblebee around the hangar for some perceived insult. And definitely no more watching as Skids and Mudflap tried to figure out the rules of a pick-up game of basketball.

She must have been silent too long, because she hard Josh sigh heavily. "Phoenix—"

Her hand moved before she knew what she was doing, grasping his arm tightly. He froze, immobile under her fingers. And she knew that if she wanted, he'd give her control. Control of his flesh, his blood, his heart. All she had to do was give up everything she'd earned since Mission City in exchange for that control.

"Shut up," she whispered, one tear sliding down her face. "Just shut up and listen, okay? I can't say yes right now. But I'm not saying no, either."

He looked away quickly, started to pull out of her grasp. Lydia dug her nails into his skin, holding fast to the corded muscles of his forearm. "Josh, for crying out loud, you're asking me to give up everything. I have to tell you that I'm not comfortable with that. I've worked damn hard to rebuild my life since… since what happened to our team. For the first time since that day, I'm happy again. I've found a niche, a place to belong, and despite what you think, I've found friendship among the Autobots. If I'm going to be honest with you, I can say that I've found family in them."

She let go of his arm, lifting her hands to his face, turning him to face her. He stepped into that turn, so much so that she found one of his legs between hers, his arms braced on either side of her body on the countertop. It was intimate, that pose, and somehow natural. His eyes opened, staring deeply into hers, letting her see all the pain and rage and fear that his life had become in the past three years.

Where she had found some semblance of joy, he had only found aggravation.

"I know you can't let yourself believe that some of the Cybertronians are good. I'm not asking you to accept my word as gold in this instance. But I want you to understand that I can't be with you if it means I have to give up the life I've made. I need you to understand that."

Josh shook his head lightly, one slow movement from side to side. "How can you live with the ones that tore your life away?"

"I don't," she said calmly, refusing to let his words sting her. "Those are the Decepticons. I live with the ones that helped give me back my life. They're called Autobots, and there _is_ a difference. I only wish you could see it."

"I see part of it," he admitted, leaning in closer. "You've changed, Phoenix. I noticed it when I first saw you in the hallway. Something's different about you."

_Oh god, he's going to kiss me,_ her mind reeled. _This is a bad idea. A very, very bad idea, Lydia DeMarco. Because you have absolutely no self-control when it comes to him. Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't do it… _"Different isn't bad," she said, a touch breathy. But she didn't move away.

"Show me," he whispered.

His lips hit hers, and the last coherent thought in her mind was that of Ironhide's words from the other day: _Beauty and the Beast. Who would have thought…_

~*~*~*~*~*~

It had been a bad idea.

A delicious, deliriously wonderful, sinfully enticing, magnificently awesome bad idea. The thought made her grin and she quickly ducked her head in response. Senator Glickson was on the podium at the moment, boisterously regaling the budget committee with yet another long-winded speech designed to both push his own agenda forward and eat up any remaining time for other business. Lydia would rather eat her briefcase than let anyone believe she was so much as marginally entertained by that windbag.

She tuned him out, knowing by the volume and pitch of that greasy southern accent that Glickson was only building up in his longwinded narrative. It would be another fifteen to twenty minutes before she would have to pay attention again. And that was time she needed to organize her thoughts, to put the finishing touches on her presentation. Fate would have it that her time slot was right after the old bastard, which meant she was going to loose time rather than gain it. Glickson was never known to give any competitor—perceived or otherwise—a fair chance to state their business.

"And they say you don't have to watch out for sharks in Texas," the man beside her murmured to his intern. "That one down there is the exception to the rule. Watch yourself around him. He can make you believe the earth is flat if you give him a fraction of the chance. He can smell weakness like blood in the water."

Lydia found herself nodding slightly in agreement. Glickson was, indeed, bad news. And any smart, sane person would be preparing like all hell for the questions he would be raining down both during and after their presentation.

So why was she grinning like a five year old, thinking back to the night before?

She bit her lower lip, forcing back another smile. Simply because it had been a bad idea, but it had been presented at the right time. Josh had never gotten around to cooking those steaks, the bottle of wine she had brought with her was left untouched. Only by virtue of the bedroom being the closest room to the kitchen had they even ended up on the bed at all. And even that was by sheer accident. Throughout the night, lust had given way to tenderness, which in turn had given way to playfulness until they couldn't move a muscle. Sometime before dawn, however, she'd woken up and dressed, leaving him blissfully unconscious in the tangled sheets.

Sleeping with Joshua Eddard had been a bad idea. But at least it kept her from having to give him a direct answer.

The phone at her side vibrated, causing her to jump slightly in surprise. Her heart raced as she stared at the thing, torn between looking at the incoming message and simply ignoring it. It could be Josh, after all. And considering how she left him, that message could be anywhere in the emotional spectrum. Lydia glanced back at the podium, tuning into Glickson's story about some childhood hunting trip with his daddy. Judging the man was still in mid-rant, she chanced a quick peek at the message.

This time she didn't bother to hide the grin. GRUMPY 1 was scrawled across the display screen, Ratchet's code name in her phone. Originally she'd had something akin to 'Mean bastard' as his name. But that was until Prowl delicately pointed out how that could be misinterpreted. She'd wanted to tell him that there was no misinterpretation about that at all, that she meant what she said. Ratchet _was_ one mean old bastard. It was something he took pride in from time to time. In the end, Prowl had threatened to make a rule out of the incident, and Lydia had caved.

So Grumpy, it was.

**GRUMPY: Well?**

That was the message. Just that one word. Blunt as ever.

She slipped the phone under her desk. **"Haven't presented yet,"** she texted. **"Glickson on one of his rants"**

Her phone buzzed again almost instantly. The name on the message read OUTATIME. Wheeljack, she thought. She'd made the mistake of showing the movie "Back to the Future" to Wheeljack one night. Ever since then, he'd been obsessed with it. Or more to the point, obsessed with the DeLorean car. Optimus and Prowl had flatly refused his request to scan the car and take it as his alt mode. Apparently, there was a rule about imitating famous cars from movies thanks to a few improper uses of the disguises. No one would tell her who did what, but it didn't take a rocket-scientist to figure out at least one set of the twins were involved.

Wheeljack, in a rare fit of rebellion, changed his license plate to OUTATIME. The same license plate that was featured in the movie. There were no rules, at least to his knowledge, that prevented _that. _

Lydia grinned again, clicking on the message.

**OUTATIME: What's a Glickson and why is it ranting?**

**GRUMPY: Off my channel, 'Jack, or I'll weld something you need to something you don't.**

**OUTATIME: I have just as much at stake with this presentation as you do. I'm entitled. The asteroid drilling may be your idea, but it's my invention on the line.**

She had the mental impression of a wrench hitting a wall, and a certain yellow-and-black mech wishing to high heaven that it had collided with Wheeljack's head. **"Don't you both have something better to do than to bug me?"** she sent back.

**OUTATIME: Nope. Cleared my schedule for this. Can you give me the play-by-play?**

**GRUMPY: Well, if you cleared your schedule, then my med bay will be empty. Nothing to fix if nothing blows up.**

OUTATIME's response was a series of zeros and boxes, and Lydia bit her lip until it almost bled, trying so hard not to laugh. Her phone wasn't equipped yet to receive cybertronian glyphs. And if Wheeljack had defaulted to using his native language, he was probably having a rather creative cursing fit at the moment. Instead, she clicked on a new message, selecting the name OFFICER for Prowl. **"You might want to break up the, uh, 'conversation' between the inventor and the doctor,"** she typed. **"I think it's getting explosive."**

**OFFICER: Understood. Thank you.**

She put her phone away as the applause began, signifying the end of Glickson's speech. Lydia glanced at her watch, frowning slightly. He'd shaved a good twenty minutes off her presentation time. Normally, that would have put her in a foul mood. Yet today there was a bounce in her step, a brighter shine to her eyes as she handed off the disk containing her presentation to the aide. There was nothing like talking to her allies, her true _friends_, and having them make her laugh (whether they intended to or not), to smooth away any nervousness.

There was nothing like knowing that someone was worried about you and was waiting for you to come home, too.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Senators and aides," she began, borrowing a touch of Glickson's showmanship as she stepped onto the podium. The lights dimmed. "A great man once said 'Hold onto your hats. You're not going to believe this…'"


	12. Chapter 12 Debate

A/N: I apologize in advance if this chapter seems long or boring. I, personally, loved the idea of seeing what goes on behind closed doors in a senate meeting. Maybe that's the paralegal in me talking, but it just tickled me to no end. Not to mention that such settings can truly be seen as the modern day "dueling pistols at dawn" of our age. Humans can show their true colors at the oddest of times. And sometimes good can come from the worst of meetings.

Thank you all for the reviews and suggestions on this story. I broke 100 reviews this last time! I was so excited, so thrilled that you all like this enough to review that much. It totally made my day. I promise that certain parts of the story will start to unveil themselves in the next two chapters. Some people have been patiently waiting for me to set things in motion. Soon, I promise! The wait will hopefully be worth it.

As ever, I don't own Transformers. I don't own anything except my OC's. Just playing with them, and promise to return them in good condition... if they let me. ::looks at Ratchet, Prowl, Ironhide and the brig with her name on it, and gulps::

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The overhead projector hummed its last and went silent, bathing the Senate chamber in near darkness, scarlet-tinted shadows cast about from the emergency exit lights of the huge room. Little bits of illumination blossomed here and there, like stars coming out once the sun had set. That radiance came from the lighted bottoms of special ink pens held by a few of the more senior and prepared Senators. She, herself, owned a few of those pens for this exact reason. There was always a tiny window of darkness and silence between the end of a presentation and the raising of the main lights.

That time was used to gather thoughts, to pen down final questions… and for those in the proverbial "hot seat" such as herself this time around… those precious seconds were used to brace one's self for the onslaught of declarations and verbal assaults.

Lydia used those moments frugally, taking a deep breath and letting the room remind her of that before-mentioned field of stars just after sunset. She imagined the gradient light, the blue of the sky looking as if it had melted and run thin near the horizon. Millions of fireflies danced over the darkened countryside of her youth, swaying much in the same way as the pen-lights did. Now it was the scribbling of senators and counselors, of aides and judge, where before it had been the gentle urgings of the wind directing the tiny insects.

It was a calming image, one she had clung to during some of the worst assignments and aerial dogfights she'd ever experienced. But being a fighter pilot, flying through a literally sea of enemies while trying to defend her country and its allies, had done nothing to prepare her for life as a politician/lobbyist. At least up in the air, the battle lines were clearly defined. You knew exactly who your enemies were.

Here… Here anyone could be the one to fire the final missile and blow your presentation out of the sky.

Predictably, Senator Glickson was the first to rise to his feet when the lights came back on. Oh, he made a show of rising slowly, straightening his snow-white suit jacket over his boney shoulders, the smile on his long and thin face the perfect mix of shy reservation and self-assurance. He even looked across the expanse of other senators and committee members as if giving way in case any wanted to take the lead in the examination and debate. When no one else looked ready to rise and present a question, he oh so _graciously _stood to his full height, assuming as he always did, the lead role of prosecutor.

He reminded her so much of the Puritan judges during the days of the Salem Witch Hunts. Only he wasn't lead around by superstitious dictum. Greed motivated him, made his sharp violet gaze all the more cutting.

"Now that was, indeed, an amazing presentation," Glickson drawled out in his thick Texan accent. Sounding for all the world like a good ol' boy. Just a harmless, average guy trying to make sense out of the information before him. Everyone in the room knew better. "Even I was swept away by the scope and power of what you've thought up."

He paused a moment, reaching up to take off his spectacles and clean them on a cloth from his pocket. More showmanship, Lydia thought, trying not to grind her teeth in frustration. If he was putting this much effort into showing how harmless he was—just a rail-thin, old, white-haired man with bad vision—she must have touched a nerve on him with the presentation. Something she had said or did put the old slagger on guard. She felt a touch of sheer pride for a moment, realizing that, by his actions now, she had just been moved up from airhead liaison on a less than useful assignment to a direct threat to his agenda.

But it was only a moment of pride before she mentally dug in, waiting for him to start throwing his verbal bullets at her. This wasn't going to be pretty by any stretch of the imagination.

Glickson put his glasses back on, stepping around the circle of desks to stand before her, staring up at the podium. "But I've to say, I've a few reservations as to what this could mean for long-term budget assessments," he continued. "Not to mention the ramifications for our beloved planet as well."

_Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can…_she repeated to herself, plastering her most kind and professional smile on her lips. "Planetary ramifications for our beloved Earth is, pardon the pun, the core of this presentation. Or need I refer you to page four of the handout?"

A few senators snickered here and there, amused at her gentle rebuke. Even Glickson, himself, gave a good-natured laugh. The emotion wasn't reflected in his eyes. If anything, there was a sort of perverse glee in those orbs, as if she had walked right into a verbal trap already. Inwardly, Lydia cursed herself, searching rapidly through her memory to see what trap the crafty old bastard had laid.

"Oh, your handouts were a thing of beauty, Ms. DeMarco," he assured. "But they failed to address the main concern here. While we all certainly applaud the Autobot's concern for our planet, and while we certainly feel for the plight of our Cybertronian refugees, I cannot see the mining of the asteroid belt as a plausible solution to their needs."

… _and the wisdom not to kick the aft of the slag-headed nitwit before me that desperately needs it! _

She had to bite down on the urge to rail at Glickson. That comment about the Autobot's being refugees had been phrased to make them seem weak, dependent upon the charity of the United States and of the rest of the world. Which wasn't anywhere near the case at all. If anything, the_ humans _were the ones that needed the charity of Optimus and the others. They could have left once the All-Spark was destroyed. Knowing that they were a doomed race, unable to reproduce themselves, they could have set out for unknown space and left the humans at the mercy of the Decepticons.

Instead, they had decided to stay, to make this place their home, their last stand and the last memorial tomb of their species. And this was the thanks they got for their sacrifice…

"I fail to see the objection here," she said as diplomatically as she could. "The resources in the asteroid belt will reinforce the supplies needed without having to strip the materials from our planet's core. This operation could cut the budget in half, not to mention ease a future strain on precious resources needed for our species. This plan has nothing but our safety at its center."

"And that's just the point, isn't it," he snapped in response, the pretense of gentlemanly manners gone. "Did it not occur to you and your alien allies what purpose the asteroid belt serves for this planet? Other comets and heavenly objects pass through our solar system on nearly a daily basis, and the only thing that stops those bodies from striking us is that belt of floating rock out there."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a few of the other senators sit up and take notice of the debate. Those that were less versed in the astronomic makeup of the solar system started to show a touch of concern. Which was exactly what Glickson had in mind with this plan of attack. Make the Autobots appear weak, useless, unable to protect the planet… and then seal the deal by implanting the fear of an asteroid apocalypse in the heart of the committee members. And she had fallen right into that trap.

Or so it appeared.

Thankfully, keener minds than Glickson's had also thought through this exact objection. She allowed herself to relax, to even spare a dashingly kind smile to the sack of slime standing before her. Casually, she flipped a few pages in her portfolio, pulling up the carefully constructed list of rebuttals she, Ratchet and Wheeljack's had compiled exactly for this reason. If the humans and the Cybertronians had one rule of combat it common it was this: Know Thy Enemy. And after serving with Glickson for a year or so, she had come to know him extremely well.

A slight shadow of fear danced across Glickson's eyes as she took her time to prepare her words, obviously having expected his first volley of objections to force her off the podium in tears.

Moron.

"As we all well know," she began, raising her voice to ensure it carried to the far corners of the room. "Our beloved planet is round, correct?"

"I should hope we all know that," Glickson interrupted snidely. "What we don't know is why you are giving us this rather basic and impromptu astronomy lesson. Is there a point in all of this, or are you wasting this committee's time?"

"Just a refresher, Senator Glickson," she said mock-sweetly. "Since we all agree our planet is round, and that the asteroids in question are in a stationary orbit much like a belt, then logically, we can also agree that the asteroids are not floating around our spherical planet in a constantly shifting pattern of protection. It's quite the opposite, exactly. If we continue with your proposed idea of the belt serving as a precautionary protective measure, then we must also understand and accept that the protective measure in question would only serve to protect less than ten percent of the planet."

Murmurs arose around them as her words sank in. She stared back at Glickson, the light in her eyes anything but calm and kind. _Do it_, she mentally dared him. _Throw your next barb at me. But if you demean their efforts and sacrifices again, you son of a bitch, I'll make you eat more than your words._

The intensity in Glickson's eyes matched hers, his nearly seething with rage. "That is something we can all admit. But what about debris from the mining effort? Shattering asteroids this close to our planet could lead to meteor showers."

"Safety precautions have been outlined in the last pages of the presentation," she continued calmly, eyes glued to him. "Equipment and drilling plans will be provided, to be approved by the appropriate sub-committee once this committee agrees to allow the proposal to move forward. But I am authorized to tell you that the extraction of ores will be done in such a way to allow for minimum waste. Meaning that any pieces cut and not collected will be small enough to disintegrate upon entering Earth's atmosphere."

"And they can absolutely assure us of that?" He scoffed.

"Yes," she replied, deadly quiet. "They can."

"How?"

"That is not for this committee to decide."

"The safety of this world isn't for us to decide?" Glickson nearly sputtered, backing away from her as if she had just started to burn the American flag in front of them.

"No. Our job is to decide how to spend the money given to us by the citizens of this country. Defense is not our agenda."

"I'd like to think our _decisions_ on what kind of _defense systems_ we _purchase_ with the _money given to us by the citizens of this country_ counts as providing for the safety of this word."

_Point_, she conceded, inwardly wincing. She should have known better than to leave that large an opening. "Granted," she continued, trying to regain the upper hand. "However this isn't a discussion on defense systems. This is a discussion on an off-world mining operation. I suggest we stay on the topic at hand and not drift into unrelated issues."

The look he gave her could have killed her on the spot. "Very well," Glickson smiled, straightening his lapels again and going for that innocent appearance once more. "Let's talk money. How are they going to get the equipment to mine these asteroids?"

She tried again for calm, for that image of the stars at night, and surprised herself instead with an image of Optimus Prime, Ratchet, and Ironhide standing out on the airfield at dawn. They were battle-scarred and weary, silhouetted by a sky the color of fresh blood. Massive shoulders slumped slightly as they watched Jetfire bring in the last of the wounded from some battle or another. It had been poetic and sad, that image, bringing her to tears even though she had only been with them for less than a week. But the point of that image wasn't the cost of the fight, or the price of the war. No, the point was that they were calm, serene and sure in what they did and why they fought.

Lydia held onto that image, burned it into her brain.

"Self-funded. They have the equipment already." She fired back smoothly, steadily.

"And the transportation off planet and back?"

"See my previous comment."

"Storage of materials?"

"Again, see my previous comment."

If she thought he looked ready to kill her before, his gaze was damn near psychotic now. "What about alien organisms that may be on those rocks, viruses and bacteria?"

"Full cooperation with the CDC and NASA will be provided, as outlined in page twenty-five of the handout."

"I still don't like it," he stated flatly, tugging on his lapel so hard the fabric of that expensive silk suit almost ripped. "What about the American jobs they'll be destroying?"

She blinked, the serenity around her mind almost shattering. That was an unexpected turn, even for him. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Glickson almost shouted. "Alien mining? Alien materials? I suppose the Aliens, themselves, will do all the smelting and fabrication, right? What about the people that supply the materials they already use? What will we tell them when the plants close due to lack of business? And speaking of smelting of strange ores, have you even considered the environmental impact of what gaseous by-products could be released? Has the EPA given their stamp of approval on this project? Frankly, I don't think you've even considered a fraction of what this so-called 'solution' could do to us all. I move immediately for the removal of this proposal from consideration," he turned back towards the assembled committee. "All in favor?"

"Hold."

Everyone turned at that bold word, eyes focusing on the slender Asian woman who rose to her feet. Lydia wracked her brain for everything she could about the woman. Dr. Song-Ming Tam was her name, if memory served, one of the foremost experts on astrophysics and applied aeronautic science. Anything else about the woman was a mystery to most of the senators. Dr. Tam was reserved, quiet, and rarely, if ever, voiced an opinion on the topics presented. So, naturally, when she opened her mouth, everybody listened. Hell, rumor had it that when she spoke, the President sat up and took notice.

Everyone listened… except for Glickson, of course.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Tam," he barked. "The motion has been presented. The vote must be carried out."

"Not correct," Dr. Tam said. "Motion has been asked. No one has yet seconded the motion for a vote. Until then, the debates may continue."

She turned away from Glickson, stepping around her desk and heading towards the podium. If ever there was a moment to compare and contrast the human race, it was right before her eyes. Part of her wished vehemently that Ratchet was there to observe. Glickson nearly towered over the tiny doctor, his six foot frame dwarfing her four foot height. His complexion was deep tan from decades of sun exposure, his hair as white as his suit from age. Lines creased his weathered face like tiny roadmaps, jewel-colored eyes bright like stars.

Song-Ming was unassuming, porcelain unlined skin almost glowing against the deep dark garnet of her simple suit and sensible shoes. Her hair was black as night with only a few strands of grey here and there, like silver Christmas tinsel, to betray her true age. Dark brown eyes, almost like chips of pure obsidian, studied and observed. But never judged, never cut and never, ever belittled. While Glickson demanded respect with flash and showmanship, Dr. Tam received it with humble grace. Not for the first time did she wish the other Autobots could meet humans like Song-Ming Tam instead of the constant stream of government scumbags like Glickson.

"Senator Glickson raises a few very valid points," she began, her English flawless. "We must consider the jobs of our fellow Americans, and most of all, we must consider the threats that may come at our planet as a result of this proposal. Be that as it may," she cut Glickson off with a glare, watching as the Senator had puffed himself up, obviously trying to wrest control of the situation once more. "There are a few inaccuracies to the Senator's speech. I would like to clear those up before the vote begins."

"The risk of contamination from so-called 'alien ores' is slim to none," she continued. "Notice I did not negate the risk completely. I agree whole-heartedly that a joint effort between NASA, the CDC, and the EPA must be part of the plan. However, it is a scientific fact that the elements that exist in the Earth are also the same elements that make up the rest of the planets and heavenly bodies in our solar system. We have no evidence to the contrary, and I see no reason why this committee should spend its time debating the 'possible' existence of 'alien ore.' I also find the objection based on bacteria and the like unfounded. Do not forget that in 1969, we successfully landed on the moon. Precautions were taken at that time and we have, again, no evidence of alien contamination from the samples brought back."

At this, she turned her shrewd and intelligent eyes on Lydia. "I do, however, agree with Senator Glickson on the issue of smelting and creation of the materials. We cannot stop the Autobots from mining the asteroid belt. We, as a species, do not have the capabilities or the gall to claim that as our own. We can ask, however, that whatever is brought back is shared—both in materials and labors—with us."

A hand rose from the back, an unknown senator's voice accompanying it. "Are you proposing a tariff on the import of the ores? Pardon me for saying this, but you do realize how ungrateful that sounds. I, for one, appreciate greatly the efforts put forth from the Autobots to keep their war to themselves as much as possible."

Another hand, again, from a senator Lydia did not recognize. "The war has cost us tremendously, both in resources and financial damage trying to repair our cities. A five-minute battle between the Autobots and the Decepticons can level thirty city blocks. If there is a new source of materials, why shouldn't we have a part of it?"

"I agree," another committee member piped in. "While we cannot exact total reparations from the Autobots for the cost of this war, we should be entitled to some kind of repayment. Perhaps something akin to a twenty-eighty split would be in order. Our part being the smaller end in recognition of the efforts they put out on our behalf…"

More hands rose, more voices carrying over until the room was flooded with comments for and against a tariff. That spiraled over into who would serve on what inspection committee, and who would oversee what part of the operation. Even Glickson's overblown voice couldn't get a word in edge-wise. Lydia grinned from the podium, catching a twinkle of amusement from Dr. Tam's eyes in response. There was some sanity to the committee after all, she thought. She had no idea which senator or member had shown support for the Autobots, but the simple fact that they recognized the effort and spoke for them… well, that made her proud all over again to serve in her current post.

She reached out a finger, tapping the microphone until the voices died down.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she smiled, fighting the impulse to either blow a kiss at Glickson or flash him a one-fingered salute. "A motion was presented by Senator Glickson. I second this motion. Let the vote begin."

Glickson's hatred hit her like a physical force, a force that grew larger and heavier as each vote was cast. Lydia pulled out her phone, covertly typing in a message and hitting 'send to all.'

**LYDIA: All votes are in. Mark this on the calendar, boys and girls, mechs and femmes. The committee was almost unanimous in agreement—in our favor.**

**OUTATIME: Excellent! I'll get to work on the actual drill now. Great work, Lydia.**

**GRUMPY 1: What do you mean the actual drill? I thought you said that you worked all the issues out of it.**

**OUTATIME: Out of the prototype, sure. But that one was calibrated for Earth gravity and magnetic polarization. I need to reconfigure it to suit asteroid work in a zero-gravity environment.**

**GRUMPY 1: Slag it, I knew it! Prowl, let me out of this brig right now. If he's inventing, then something is going to need repairs.**

**OFFICER: Not without your promise to keep all parts of yourself, your weapons, your weapon's fire, and your wrenches far away from Wheeljack until you have calmed down.**

**LYDIA: Ratchet, what the eff are you doing in the brig?**

**GRUMPY 1: Not your concern, human.**

**RAMBO: Prime put him in there. Seems he's been threatening to slag anything that gets near him since you've been gone. 'Jack, apparently, has been his primary target.**

**TROUBLE 1: Among others. Put it this way, Lydia. When running for your spark from Ratchet, failure isn't an option.**

**TROUBLE 2: No, in your case, failure isn't an option. It comes bundled with your software.**

**TROUBLE 1: All show you failure, glitch-face!**

Trouble 1 and Trouble 2, she wasn't certain which was Skids and which was Mudflap. Then again, when dealing with the two of them, the name rarely ever mattered. Unless they were busy blasting at Decepticons, the two were a tag-team of mischief that wasn't even worth differentiating. But Rambo? Who was Rambo again... and then it clicked. Ironhide. The grin on her lips widened, wondering if the mech would ever allow her to share _that_ particular inside joke with the rest.

**THE PRIME-INATOR: Enough banter. Prowl, release Ratchet. Ironhide, break up the fight between the twins and brig them if necessary. Ratchet, stay away from Wheeljack. Those are my direct orders and are not open for debate. Now, Lydia, what has this agreement cost us?**

Her grin faded around the edges, becoming a smirk. Leave it to Optimus to cut right to the chase. The bot was smart enough to realize that a victory never, ever came for free. There was always a cost involved.

**LYDIA: I'll fill you in later. Vote completed. Now comes the hard part.**


	13. Chapter 13 Decisions

A/N: Some people are going to be excited about this chapter, and some people aren't. I can only ask everyone to keep reading, as this story takes more twists and turns than anything I have ever written before. I am truly grateful that everyone enjoyed the Senate meeting. I was very worried about that chapter, feeling that it might have been too dull and boring. Being in the field of law, I just love little sessions like that. But I also understand that political intrigue isn't everyone's cup of tea. Thank you to those that perfer more action-oriented stories for staying with me to this point. I'm having so much fun with this, I can't even put it into words. I sincerely and utterly hope you all feel the same. :D

I'd like to give a special shout-out to Hummergrey for her wonderful stories and for swapping ideas back and forth with me. It's always a pleasure. :)

With that in mind, I present chapter 13. As ever, I do not own Transformers or even dream about owning them. Please don't sue me. This is purely for fun.

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"I still think you should say something," Lydia said into her cell phone, closing the door to her hotel room behind her. The briefcase and keys hit the little table in her sitting area, her beautiful Versace dark sapphire peep-toe pumps sliding off her feet and under the table. "At least let him know you are open to the idea."

Arcee gave a ladylike snort, a mannerism she had no doubt picked up from Lydia. It made her smile to realize that, to know that the Autobots were picking up just as much from the humans as they, themselves, were from their robotic allies. It was a trade-off of culture, one that she felt was to the benefit of both races. After all, if she could stand in the midst of a committee meeting and think things like "kicking aft" and "slag-headed nitwit," then it stood to reason her friends would pick up vocal ways of expressing their emotions.

She had a feeling, though, that the vocal expressions were more for human benefit than anything of real use to the Cybertronians. Each one of them had an internal comm. system, allowing instant communication of thoughts, ideas, feelings… The need to give a verbal emission to something that could be expressed much faster in a thought seemed useless. However, their off-world friends recognized the limitations not only in human communication but also in human temperaments. It was simply easier to adopt 'backward and primitive' habits rather than run the risk of accidentally offending a human by not showing proper attention.

"Let him know I'm open to what?" Arcee grumped. "What kind of meaningful relationship could we hope to have in the midst of this war?"

"You can't think of it that way," Lydia said gently, eyes closing with pure adulation as her tortured feet sank into the cool, plush carpet. Never in a million years would she give up her shoe collection. Just as she would never, ever admit to anyone that sometimes those shoes just killed her feet. Such was the sacrifice for beauty. "If you look at everything in terms of war, all you'll ever see is negativity. Besides, what's the harm in some companionship? It doesn't have to be anything serious to start with."

She got the impression her friend was staring in the direction of D.C., wishing she could bore holes with her eyes into Lydia's head. "I'm not that kind of femme."

Lydia laughed. She couldn't help it. "No, no, no. I'm not saying that you should… ummm… you know, 'hump and dump.' Or however your race would term a, uh, single 'event' together."

"It's called a sparking," Arcee put in, voice slightly unfriendly. "And it's not funny."

Lydia shook her head, even though she knew her friend couldn't see it. "You know me better than that. I'd never mock you over something serious," she teased, crossing to the mini-bar and helping herself to a not-too-shabby little bottle of pinot noir red. "Now, you know I'd mock the hell out of you over anything else. I wouldn't be your friend, otherwise."

"Given your race's definition of friendship at times, I often wonder how you haven't accidentally killed each other off. The protocols and traditions you place on your so-called allies make my processors hurt."

She raised her glass of red wine in a private salute, both to Arcee's comment and to the day's victory in the Senate. No doubt Optimus and Lennox were going to be less than thrilled over what the government was going to ask in return for the off-world mining operation, namely the restrictions to the project. And considering that the United States had termed the Autobots 'allies' under the current treaty, Arcee's words were right on the money. No pun intended.

"Me, too," Lydia admitted, curling up on the couch in the near dark, her head falling back against the satin cushions. She closed her eyes, savoring the darkness, the quiet. Tomorrow would bring an all new definition of hell as the committee buzzed into motion for the final two sessions, especially if Glickson had anything to say about it. But right now, she would revel in her tiny victory and listen to her friend's voice. "Many a war in our history has been started due to a misinterpretation of the word 'friend' and what it entitles. But you didn't call me to debate the difference between Cybertronian and human friendship customs. Out with it, girlfriend."

Arcee was silent a moment. "Fine," she gritted out. "I like him. A lot. Satisfied?"

"Immensely," Lydia replied, dryly. "So what are we going to do about it?"

"We?"

"Yeah, _we._ That's another crazy human custom. If you're uncomfortable or worried about something, then I, as your friend, am, too. We'll stick this out together. Or as long as I possibly can. You guys tend to live a lot longer than us humans. What you might consider a brief courtship could take several of our generations to complete."

"Now why did you have to go and remind me about your lifespan?" Arcee half-whined/half-grumbled. "I try very hard to forget that. Some 'bots consider it a waste of time to make friends with humans. We blink an optic and… Frag it, now I'm in a worse mood. Some friend you are."

"We aim to please," Lydia chuckled. "And it's not my fault you refuse to stay on topic. Focus, here, hon."

"There's nothing to focus on. It's never going to happen."

"You don't know that until you try."

"But the war—"

"To the pit with the war," Lydia snapped, sitting upright again. "Forget the war for a minute, Arcee. I mean, if you can't take time to appreciate what you have right in front of you, then what in the known universe are you fighting _for_?"

Both females were silent a moment as those words sank in, both lost in their own thoughts. Lydia scrubbed a hand over her face, Josh's image filling her mind's eye. Now there was a man that truly wanted to love her, to give her a home and children and everything she always thought she'd wanted out of life. A man almost literally right before her eyes. A man that wasn't threatened by her military or political prowess, a man that would never stand in the way of her career—so long as she left Diego Garcia and the Autobots behind, that is.

"Great," Lydia sighed, slumping back against the pillows. "Now I'm the one in a worse mood."

"Why? I didn't say anything."

"No, it's not something you said," Lydia fiddled with her half-empty wine glass. "It's something I did. Or more to the point, didn't do."

"I'm not following your logic," Arcee prompted.

"I, ah, realized I had feelings for a certain male the other day, and—"

"Well, it's about time," Arcee huffed, laughter evident in her voice. "The rest of us already know. We've been wondering how long it would take for the two of you to figure it out."

Lydia pulled the phone away from her ear, staring at the device as if it had malfunctioned. What in the world was Arcee talking about? How could she have known about Josh? There certainly wasn't anything in her personnel record—public or private—to reflect her feelings about her former captain. Her eyes narrowed dangerously as an unwelcomed thought wiggled into her brain. Had they planted a bug on her, or had her followed by an Autobot?

"How did you know?" she hissed.

This time Arcee did laugh. "Please, it's written all over the way you two behave around each other. In all seriousness, some 'bots aren't happy with the idea, though. It's been a very, very long time since he's professed an interest in any femme at all. Not since the death of his bonded at the beginning of the war."

Her head spun, her ears ringing. "What?" she barely croaked out of a suddenly dry throat. "Who?"

"Who else, dumbass," Arcee whispered, as if still trying to keep a secret everyone already knew about. "Ratchet."

She dropped the phone, letting out a tiny squeak as it almost ended up inside her glass of wine. Arcee's laughter poured from the speakers, obviously finding delight in Lydia's torment. Friend mocking friend, just as Lydia had suggested earlier in the conversation. And still she couldn't bring herself to pick up the phone. She simply stared at the thing, stunned.

Ratchet. Mr. Tall, Yellow, and Frustrating… had feelings for her? Feelings outside of the realm of friendship? No, it couldn't be possible… or could it? Had she missed the signs all along purely because she was afraid of what she felt towards him, herself? She could admit it to herself that she was fond of the medic, probably more than she should be. If she was going to be brutally honest with herself, he was the main reason she hadn't said yes to Joshua Eddard. But not for reasons anyone would suspect.

And yes, she found Josh's dislike of anything not human very disturbing. His inability to recognize that the Autobots were not responsible for their career-ending injuries was also another checkmark in the "DO NOT DO THIS" side of the balance sheet. And there was still the matter of what really happened between himself and Nadine to figure out. Leaving Arcee and the rest of the Autobots behind would be like ripping out a huge chunk of her heart, a pain she wasn't sure she could bear.

But the main, true reason she hadn't said yes to the man was because of one grumpy, annoying, frustratingly determined medic.

"Holy. Shit." She whispered with feeling.

"Lydia, you still there?" Arcee asked, concern replacing merriment in her voice. "Lydia?"

"It wouldn't work," she said, hastily picking up the receiver, hoping her friend hadn't put out a distress call on her behalf. She'd heard horror stories of Bumblebee and Optimus doing that for one Samuel James Witwicky and Captain Lennox, misinterpreting something either had said or done. The last thing she needed was Grimlock leading a charge on D.C. to presumably rescue her. "Me and Ratchet… it just wouldn't work."

"So you say."

"No, seriously. I'm not making this up or being coy. It just wouldn't work," she stammered, heart beginning to flutter with slight panic. "It doesn't matter how much we lov—cared for each other, it just would never work. I can't give him Autobot kids anymore than he could give me human children. And what about our lifespans? Why would he even consider being with someone that will be gone, as you put it, in the blink of an optic?"

"Woah, calm down, Lydia," Arcee soothed. "Those are all valid reasons, many of the same reasons that some 'bots are opposed to relationships of any kind with humans. But we can't change what we feel and for who we feel it. And they're called sparklings, by the way."

"What are called sparklings?" She asked, eyes wide, only half hearing what her friend was saying. Her hand lifted to her chest, her lungs working to draw in as much oxygen as they could, as fast as they could.

"Autobot children, they're called sparklings. And are you sure you're okay? You sound like your spark-chamber is about to overload. Should I call for human medics to your location?"

Lydia squeezed her eyes closed against a sudden spring of tears. She forced herself to breathe normally, to push aside the heavy pain in her chest. It felt like someone had jumped up and down on it, repeatedly. "No, no, I'm fine. Just, uh, trying to process all this."

"What do you mean? I thought you said you realized your feelings for… Oh, Pit. It wasn't Ratchet you were talking about, was it."

"Not until you mentioned it," she sighed, pressing her hand to her eyes. The migraine that had been blissfully absent for the past three days flared back into life with a vengeance, the pain of it almost knocking her out. "But now that I think about it, I think I really was."

"Again, I'm not following you."

"His name is Joshua Eddard, a former team member of mine. We were together at Mission City when Starscream attacked—"

"Hold it right there. You were at Mission City?"

Again, she nodded before she realized Arcee couldn't see it. "That's classified, hon. And if you tell anyone I told you this, I'll call you a damn liar. It could get me locked up for the rest of my life. But yeah, I was there. I was a pilot in one of the planes Starscream ripped to pieces before we could fire on Megatron."

"Primus," Arcee breathed. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Would it have made a difference?"

"Yes. No. Frag, I don't know."

"Doesn't matter now. The government considers it classified, and I can't tell you more than the fact that I was there. So was Joshua. I was under his command at the time, and he was married—sparkmated I think you call it—at the time. Well, he's not married anymore. And…"

"And he wants you to be his sparkmate," Arcee finished.

"Something like that, yeah."

"I see," she said quietly. "And will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Be his sparkmate."

Tears flowed from her eyes, the answer sitting right there in her heart. She just didn't have the courage to say it. "He's everything I've always wanted in a husband. He has his flaws, like every man does. But I thought that I would be strong enough to help him overcome those flaws."

The silence on the line was almost palpable, cutting through Lydia like a dull knife, leaving jagged, painful emotional wounds in its wake. "Will you at least come back to say goodbye?"

The sob hitched out of her throat before she could swallow it. "No."

The echo of Cybertronian came through the phone next, the words bitter sounding. "Fine then. Thanks for noth—"

"No! That's not what I meant. I meant that I'm not going to marry him, Arcee. This is probably the stupidest thing I've ever done in my life, but I'm not going to marry him."

There was no hiding the startled expression in Arcee's voice. "Why not?"

_Because if I did, I'd just be settling for what I thought I wanted. Because some things are more important than comfort. Because I'm an utter and complete moron. Because of an amazing set of blue optics and an impressive ability to fling a wrench. Because I won't belittle what I feel by marrying a man who hates the ideals and sentients I've come to love so dearly. _

What she said aloud was "Because I don't feel for him the way you feel for Hot Rod. And I'd rather be alone than live a lie every day of my life."

The sound of Arcee flushing air through her vents filled the phone, the Cybertronian version of taking a deep breath. "What do you feel for this human?"

"Comfort. Lust. Companionship, and yes, I do love him. But not the way I want to love him. He'll give me everything if I become his wife. But not everything I want in my life."

"Then I guess you have your answer."

Lydia brushed away her tears with the back of her hand, huffing out a laugh of her own. "Tell that to my loins. The man makes me hotter than the inside of the sun. And his skills in the sack are nothing short of mind-blowing."

"Skills in the sack…" Arcee said slowly, puzzling out the human phrase. Lydia could tell when she found the answer she wanted, as that sound of flushing air came across the line again. "OH! Tell me you didn't, how did you say it earlier, 'hump and dump' him."

"If I told you that, I'd be lying."

"LYDIA!"

Lydia imagined the femme standing up straight, her circuits hot enough to fry due to embarrassment. It made her laugh until she thought she was going to throw up. "Yes, Arcee, I'm sorry to inform you that I _AM_ that kind of femme. At least when it comes to that particular male."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Me? I suppose I'll head home after the meetings end, and just drool all over Epps or something."

"Not that, you pervert," Arcee laughed. "I mean about you and Ratchet."

Lydia felt her face heat up with embarrassment this time, that weight returning to her chest again. "There's nothing to be done about that. He's an Autobot. I'm a human. I'm woman enough to admit that I care for him a great, great deal. But, uh, do you really think he feels the same way?"

"Uh, yeah, I do. So do a lot of the others. Ironhide wasn't kidding when he said Ratchet has been in a really bad mood since you left. Ironhide's sporting a rather nasty scorch on his armor at the moment from trying to brig him."

She guzzled down the last of her wine, hoping to borrow courage from the liqueur. "This isn't going to be a fun situation to come home to," she sighed. "I suppose he and I will have to have a talk about this. The outcome of that talk will determine a lot of things about my future with you guys. The last thing I want to do is start some bad blood between our species."

"Well, let's not be too hasty about that," Arcee put in quickly. "If you think you're going to do that self-sacrificing thing and leave us all, you've got an aft-kicking in your future with my name written all over it."

That put a smile back on her face, albeit a little one. But it was genuine, spurred on by the uncomplicated truth that some of the Autobots were willing to fight for her just as much as she was willing to fight for them. Be it on the battlefield or off.

"I'll accept that, just so long as you accept a future 'aft-kicking' from me if you don't say anything to Hot Rod."

Arcee puffed out more air. "Slaggin' mech probably doesn't even know I exist in that way. Acts like a youngling barely into his third frame."

"I have no idea what that means, but if you're referring to him acting like an immature child, welcome to the club. Every male—be they human or mech—acts like an idiot more times than not. I swear if they were any more moronic, they'd have to be watered twice a week."

It was Arcee's turn to laugh long and hard at that.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"_His name is Joshua Eddard, a former team member of mine," _Lydia'svoice played through the speakers._ "We were together at Mission City when Starscream attacked—"_

Both Captain William Lennox and Optimus Prime stood at the communications center of the Diego Garcia base, the former leaning against the railing of the communications platform. Optimus stood at his side, a cable extending from an open hatch in his wrist connecting to the computer station. The expressions on both of their faces were of grim speculation.

"Where did you get this again?" Will asked, straightening and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Arcee is a diligent and obedient soldier," Optimus said, blinking blue optics at his human counterpart. "She felt this information was of import for our safety and protection. She relayed it directly to me—and only to me—the moment the conversation took place."

Will nodded, lips compressed into a thin line. "Is there more?"

Optimus nodded.

"_Hold it right there. You were at Mission City?" _Arcee's voice.

"_That's classified, hon. And if you tell anyone I told you this, I'll call you a damn liar. It could get me locked up for the rest of my life. But yeah, I was there. I was a pilot in one of the planes Starscream ripped to pieces before we could fire on Megatron."_

"_Primus," _Arcee breathed._ "Why didn't you tell us?"_

"_Would it have made a difference?"_

"_Yes. No. Frag, I don't know."_

"_Doesn't matter now. The government considers it classified, and I can't tell you more than the fact that I was there. So was Joshua. I was under his command at the time, and he –"_

"The rest of the conversation is not important," Optimus said, cutting off the recording and retracting the cable back into his wrist.

"Are you sure?"

"I have shared everything that is pertinent. The rest of the conversation is of a private nature between Arcee and Lydia. I would respect their privacy and their friendship, as Arcee has respected my discretion with it."

Will nodded again, thoughtfully this time. "Well, that explains a lot and yet nothing at the same time. I wonder what else happened that day that the government feels is dangerous enough to classify. Considering we were all there when it happened."

"It is a mystery," Optimus agreed. "One I am not comfortable with, but will allow for the time being."

"That makes two of us. But Lydia seems to trust Arcee enough to open up to her," he glanced up at the Autobot leader. "Does Arcee trust you enough to continue to relay information as it comes up?"

"I would hope so."

"I really hate this," Will took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "I'm going to try digging the legal way for her records. Failing that, I can have Epps take a crack at it. Such a shame, though. I liked Lydia. She was almost part of the team."

Optimus tipped his head to the side, regarding him. "She _is_ part of the team," he corrected. "Time will tell if she decides to accept that invitation, or continue to linger on the outskirts. Until then, we have other matters to attend to."


	14. Chapter 14 Discussion

A/N: Thank you all for the lovely comments and suggestions! I so hope that you continue on with the story of Lydia and her adventures with our favorite Autobots. Plots will start to resolve themselves soon. I know I promised that some things would come to light by now, but trust me. They are coming. Bits and pieces pull themselves together for a reason later on down the road. I think you will like it. At least, I hope you do. :D

My apologies if this part comes off boring or dull. Some conversations just need to be had (or so Arcee and Ratchet told me). ;)

As ever, I do not own Transformers. They are owned by people with too much money to even contemplate. Please don't sue. This is only for fun.

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It was the sight of the F-22's that did it.

Twin F-22 Boeing Raptor-class fighters stood silent in the early morning sunlight, glinting here and there as the scarlet radiance of dawn reflected from their surface. Her breath hitched in her throat, hands tingling from the remembered feel of the control stick. Almost unbidden, the memories surfaced from that dark place she thought she had buried them, bursting free to flood her present with ghosts of her past. She could feel the flight suit warm against her skin, her helmet—emblazoned with the fiery reds and yellows and oranges of her Phoenix call sign—tucked into her elbow as she strode across the flight deck.

No, she hadn't stridden across that flight deck—she'd swaggered. Pilots _swaggered. _

And she and her teammates had been no different. They swaggered up to their fighters, a tight-knit group of arrogance and the supreme knowledge that no one could handle their planes the way they could. And it was true, dammit. No one had known the ins and outs of her baby like she had; no one else could have kept it in the air when every law of physics known to man or beast stated that it should have fallen. Eclipse and Shadow had felt the same way.

She could remember the laughter, the joking and ribbing as they swaggered across to the flight line, each barely returning the salutes given by their handlers. It wasn't that they felt they were above the techs and mechanics—far from it actually. It was a well-known and accepted fact that each and every pilot treated each and every run like it was a routine drill. They would laugh and joke, carry on like they had all the time in the world… because deep inside everyone knew that they didn't.

They all knew that this next hop, this next mission, could be the last one they would ever take.

So they, as pilots, skirted the edge of insubordination with their half-hearted salutes and winks to their people. And the techs and mechanics, the deck-hands and guards, all smiled and let it slide.

Except for the rare occasion when rank was on the flight line… like she was now.

"Ma'am," the pilot said, snapping to attention and saluting her.

Lydia blinked, taken aback by the man's presence. She returned the salute, the confused look in her mismatched eyes hidden behind her sunglasses. "At ease, pilot. Something I can help you with?"

The young man's eyebrows drew together, questioningly. "Ma'am?" he asked. "You left the Committee group and approached the flight line. Is there some question I can answer before we get underway?"

She blinked, grateful for the large Coach sunglasses that hid most of her expression. For the first time in her life, she was thankful that the Hilton sisters had made the large 1970s frames popular again. Never thought she would thank those two women for anything remotely related to the furtherance of the female gender. Lydia took her hand off the metal ladder attached to plane, taking a moment to adjust her sunglasses—

—and froze. Had she really left the group? Had she been so lost in the memories, the yearning for her previous life, that she didn't remember crossing the runway, laying her hand on the ladder to the cockpit like she had every right? The look on the pilot's face said as much, and Lydia found herself grateful this time to the pink-tinged light of dawn. It hid most of the flush of embarrassment from her cheeks.

"No, Lieutenant Varrick," she said, glancing down at the name patch on his flight suit. "Just saying goodbye to some old memories."

He was so young, she realized, about the same age she had been when she'd earned her wings. The bittersweet smile cropped up onto her lips, turning into a lopsided grin as she took another step back from the plane. There she stood, in her mid-thirties, staring at a man that looked barely out of high school, and thinking of the so-called better days of her career. There was a part of her that would do anything to regain that swaggering step, that careless insubordination that this young lieutenant hid quite well behind an exterior of respect.

Though deep inside, he was probably anxious and more than a little annoyed that some higher grade Lieutenant Commander (a rank she was never really comfortable with, and as such referred to herself as Lieutenant only) was touching _his _baby. And it was _his _baby, she noted, catching the name of James "Fateblaze" Varrick stenciled just beneath the glass of the cockpit. The lopsided grin grew to a full-blown smirk at that, and she fought not to shake her head ruefully. She knew those suppressed feelings well, simply because, about fifteen years ago, she had faced this very thing. Some old pilot touching her baby, yammering on about the best days of his career like anyone really wanted to hear it.

"Do you love her?" she asked aloud, catching the young man by surprise.

"Uh, ma'am?"

"Your fighter, Varrick," she explained, lowering her glasses and pinning him with her dual-colored stare. "Do you love her?"

She watched the emotions flicker across his face, and could almost tick them off on her fingers as they passed through his brain. Denial, self-consciousness, the need to answer a superior officer directly without lying or sounding insane… It amused her, more for the fact that now she was on the other side of the situation. Now she was the old annoying former pilot gazing at the young brash kid that thought he knew it all simply because he had the right to fly a fighter.

"Yes," Varrick answered, settling for honesty. "I love flying her."

"Good answer," she replied, letting her eyes sweep over the Raptor one more time. "This isn't going to make much sense to you now, but remember these words when you're standing where I am one day. Cherish it, Varrick. Love your baby for all she's worth and she'll love you in return. Because one day she isn't going be yours anymore, and you'll have to decide what's important in your life."

Varrick stared straight ahead towards the ever brightening horizon, obviously embarrassed by the emotion in her voice. "Uh, thank you, ma'am. If I may speak openly to a superior officer, the tour cannot get underway without all the committee members onboard the plane."

She tried not to wince at his words, though her mouth compressed in a thin line. Lydia glanced over her shoulder at the waiting passenger jet, feeling some of the fight drain out of her. It was fatigue, she told herself over and over again. It was the last day of the week-long symposium and simple fatigue made her feel so… depressed at the thought of riding inside that luxury government-appointed jet. It was the twin of Air Force One, decked out with everything a person would need for any diplomatic visit. Most of the committee members were so excited to fly in it… and yet it made her feel like the teenager forced to sit at the kids table during family dinner.

No longer a fighter pilot, she was to be escorted, a politician like all the others. It should have been mortifying.

And yet, oddly enough, it wasn't as bad as she would have thought. While the sting was still there, she realized that she had a job to do, too. A world to protect and she was the only one among billions that could do her job. She was doing more for her planet, for her cause and her friends—Autobot and human like—than she ever could flying that F-22 in escort formation. That thought took the throb out of the embarrassment, and the smile returned to her lips.

Well, that and the thought of Optimus Prime sitting through human meeting after human meeting, his massive bi-pedal form wedged into the conference room. If anyone had a right to feel like the teen forced to sit at the kid's table, it was him. And if he could bend his pride over and over again and sift through the pointless layers of human bureaucracy for the good of all, she could handle a half-hour flight in a luxury plane.

Put that way, it didn't sound so bad.

"We all do what we must for those we love," she chuckled, reaching a hand up to caress the silvery-grey fighter one last time. "And we all must choose what is important to us along the way. Take care of yourself, Lieutenant Varrick."

The young man glanced at her, and she saw a bit of respect trickle into his gaze. Something she had said had made an impression on him, and she wished she could remember what that was.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," it was there on the tip of his tongue, the desire to ask her all sorts of questions. And yet military protocol made him hold his words. "May I have the honor of escorting you to the plane?"

"Lieutenant DeMarco knows her way to the plane," Josh said softly, walking out from around the nose of the fighter. "And if anyone is going to escort the Lieutenant, it's going to be me."

"Yes, Captain Eddard," Varrick snapped painfully to attention again, sharply saluting Captain Joshua Eddard as he emerged in his full dress uniform. "Apologies if I overstepped my bounds."

"At ease, son," Josh said offhandedly to Varrick. His eyes remained intent on her as he offered his arm. "Lydia, they are waiting for us."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Ratchet stood out on the runway, his optics staring out into the east. Night still cloaked the sky around the Diego Garcia military base, the cold light of the coming day only the barest glint across the horizon. It was only three in the morning by human standards, and yet the base was sluggishly coming back to life. Not that it was ever truly dormant, he mused. He, himself, had just finished his shift on what the humans called 'graveyard perimeter guard.'

That was another of their phrases that irritated him. Why in the Pit they would call the night-time shift a 'grave' was beyond him. A grave was where they buried their dead, and had nothing to do with work. If anything, it was the utter absence of work. The only connection his processors could reach had to do with horror movies and the idiotic fear most humans had towards the darkness. While it was prudent, even logical to fear what one couldn't see, the night wasn't the only time when death could occur.

Ratchet had seen enough energon sprayed across the battlefield to know that it was just as bright and terrible in the night as it was in the day. Hence, his irritation with the graveyard shift phrase.

The sounds of two approaching vehicles echoed in his receptors, his processors recording, analyzing and dismissing them almost before he noted their presence. Both Prowl and Arcee unfolded into their bi-pedal modes, stepping over to join him. They were silent a moment, waiting for him to acknowledge their presence. It was a semi-comfort, their attentions to Cybertronian protocol. Human influence had taken root in some of the younger bots, and the common courtesy of waiting for an elder bot to acknowledge your presence had become rare thing, indeed. Now, most mechs simply called out, interrupting what could have been important calculations.

It galled him. But then again, almost everything had galled him for the past week. And _that _galled him all the more. Hence his reassignment to graveyard perimeter patrol—away from almost everyone.

Arcee shifted from foot to foot a moment, glancing over at Prowl. The second-in-command did have the authority and necessary protocol subroutines to break the silence first. However, respect for the elder medic (not to mention said elder medic's temper of late), had him holding his vocals. He wasn't entirely sure that Ratchet had gotten over his indignant attitude for being brigged. It probably didn't help that his cell had been next to Sideswipe and Sunstreaker for a couple of turns.

Prowl vented softly, regretting that decision to this day. His primary concern had been to place Ratchet safely into the brig without any further damage to anybot. Ironhide bore the brunt of it, the fist-fight between the two over some misunderstood comment was now a thing of legend among the base personnel. They were still toying with the idea of replacing the secondary storage hangar that the two had flattened during their tussle, or turning it into the new base paintball range.

Secretly, Prowl hoped they chose the latter. He had scanned the internet many times over collecting data about this 'paintball game' and had come to the conclusion it would serve as a great release of aggression. For both human and Autobot like. That, in and of itself, would eliminate eighty percent of the brig time. The other twenty would forever remain the sole property of both sets of twins.

"I apologize for the hole I put in the wall of your brig," Ratchet said at last.

Arcee looked down, fighting off the smile that threatened her lip plates. A quick glance to her right showed Prowl almost doing the same thing.

"It is fine," Prowl replied. "I think the most damage was done to the Twin's mental state."

"Seeing you tear through the wall like that, when most thought those walls to be impervious to our strength, left a lasting impression on them," Arcee added, voice carefully bland. Inwardly, she carried video of the hole in the wall. Something she couldn't wait to show Lydia in secret. "How did you manage to get through that material so quickly? Weren't your weapons and so forth coded and locked?"

The elder mech shifted uncomfortably, turning a glare on the femme. "My secret," he said flatly, and turned back to the horizon. "Anyway, I will upload the plans and calculations for a stronger brig wall configuration soon. If I can figure a way out of it, I am certain the Decepitcons can, too."

Prowl nodded. "I appreciate the effort, though I still believe you give them too much credit."

Ratchet snorted. "They had their fair share of scientists and inventors, both before and during the war. They can figure it out. Besides, being here on earth is not a reason to stop improving our technology. Remember, Starscream was once a scientist, too, and a leading expert in his field."

"Agreed, however we have Skyfire on our side," Prowl countered. "He worked hand in hand with Starscream. Anything that Decepticon comes up with, we can be certain Skyfire can counter."

"We can only hope," Ratchet said quietly. "Are the Twins okay?"

This time Arcee didn't bother to hide her smile. "Better than okay, actually. When they stopped screaming that you were energon-mad and trying to offline them, they purposely volunteered to clean the brig and conduct repairs. Obviously, for the simple reason of trying to puzzle out how you did what you did."

"Primus, don't let them find out," Prowl muttered, pinching his nose plates. "It's hard enough to keep up on their activities without their learning new tricks."

"Hrmph," Ratchet vocalized, the amused sound taking the other two by surprise. Inwardly, he was more pleased than amused at Sunny and Sides reaction to his assault. "Goes to show you that an old mech can still have a surprise or two in his arsenal. And teaches them that just because a mech is in the brig, he shouldn't be poked at as if he is unable to give a reprisal."

"I think they know that now," Arcee grinned. "Probably won't forget for a long time."

"When is Skyfire due to land?" Ratchet asked, his tone turning grim again.

"Within the next thirty minutes, human time," Prowl answered. "Why?"

"Optimus has orders for him to retrieve Lydia from D.C. today. The sooner, the better."

Prowl stiffened, lip plates compressing in a thin line, and Arcee nearly bristled at his reaction. While Prowl didn't fall into the category that some bots did in regards to humans, he didn't exactly approve of relationships of any kind with them. Logically, she could see his point. Humans were fragile, short-lived, erratic and temperamental. They killed one another with comparative ease, and spent what little lives they had arguing over the stupidest of principles. Not to mention how easily they got sick, and the rampant diseases and genetic defects inherent in all earthly organics shortened their tiny lifespan all the more.

Yet it wasn't that Prowl disapproved or thought the relationships were a waste of time, it was the opposite. He worried more for the remainder of his species, and how the constant loss could affect their sparks. They literally had nothing left. No home, no way to recreate themselves, nothing… Everything was dead due to the war. And some bots wanted to add a further heaviness to an already overburdened spark by befriending and caring for fragile lifeforms?

She could see how his logical processors would reject the idea flat out, choosing instead to protect what emotions he had left. But she had come across a human phrase that now sang in her spark constantly: _Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all._

If only she could make Prowl and the others understand that.

Prowl merely nodded politely in response to Ratchet's words. "Understandable. The mining project holds great interest for us all. I am certain that Lydia will represent our needs with skill," the security mech tilted his head to the side, optics dimming slightly as he listened to an internal comm.. "I must go. Arcee and I arrived to inform you that your shift was complete. Hound has arrived to take over the patrol."

Arcee watched Prowl transform into his alt mode and drive off in the direction of the main hangar. "She'll come home safely," she said softly, glancing back at the larger mech. "Skyfire will not let her come to harm."

_Tell that to my spark_, he thought grimly. Nodding once, he shifted into his search and rescue H3 form and headed out.


	15. Chapter 15 Ramifications

A/N: I always say that Reviews are Love. And it's so true. Thank you all for staying with me through this story. It's been a roller-coaster ride even for me as the Author. I get swept away with the way the story twists and turns just as much as the reader, and I think that is a mark of a truly entertaining story! :D

I am sure many of you have noticed that Lydia has near fanatical obsession with designer shoes. It was stated to me in a review that every good OC needs flaws and the like, otherwise they turn into Mary Sue's (and/or whatever the male equivalent of Mary Sue is), and I think that shoe obsession is a major flaw. Add in there her other obsession with Tall, Dark, and Emotionally Retarded males--be they human or Autobot ::dodges a wrench from Ratchet and a bullet from Josh for _that _one::--and I think she's leaving the realm of Mary Sue far behind. Though in this chapter, I state that the shoe designer Stuart Weitzman created most of the amazing footwear in the latest remake of the movie "Fame." I've done some research on the topic, and have found articles to support and deny this claim. So I suppose this is my apology to all the shoe-lovers out there if I got that part wrong.

As ever and always, I do not own Transformers or any of the drop-dead-gorgeous shoes mentioned in this story. Please don't sue. It's purely for fun.

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It had to be the fatigue again, she thought, staring at Joshua's outstretched hand. She hadn't been sleeping well since that conversation with Arcee three nights ago, her dreams plagued by a montage of horror. In one dream she watched as Joshua died beside Eclipse and Shadow during the assault on Mission City. In another, she screamed in heart-breaking denial as Ratchet fell to Starscream's attack, but instead of bleeding energon, crimson blood flowed from his body. And yet still in another, both males were forever out of her reach, standing on a summit too steep for her to climb while a mixture of human blood and energon flowed like the rising tide, threatening to drown her.

She knew what those dreams meant. She had to make a choice between human and Autobot, between her former life and her new one. That wasn't the part that bothered her, though. No, what bothered her was that she kept hesitating in making that choice. And as a consequence, she lost both.

Lydia looked up into those once-reassuring grey eyes, heart racing at the intensity in that gaze. God, it had been so easy to tell Arcee that she wouldn't stay with Joshua when the man, himself, wasn't standing right in front of her. But now? Now all she could think about was that one shared night and the things they had done to one another. It made her knees weak, her throat dry… and the very fact that he could do that to her, regardless of how much she hated his ideals, just pissed her off to no end. She reached for that anger, held it tightly and let it burn through the desire that permeated her being. Anger was always so much easier to handle than lust, and it had that brilliant way of sharpening her mind instead of clouding it. The trembling stopped, and her gaze could have frozen molten metal.

"What are you doing here?" she asked stiffly, reaching out to take his arm if only out of politeness.

"My team is providing the escort protection," he said simply, steering them towards the waiting plane, eyes focused straight ahead.

"Oh really?" she raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess, it was fate that put us together like this? Just a happy little coincidence that you drew this assignment on rotation? Come on, Josh. You know me better than that."

The corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk. "Well, let's just say that a little Texas birdie raised such a fuss about the project that almost all of D.C. knows about it. Naturally, I had to volunteer, out of sheer morbid curiosity, of course. Congratulations, by the way, on handing Glickson his ass the other day. I wish I could have been there to see it."

Lydia groaned, momentarily forgetting about her anger with Joshua in favor of her annoyance with Glickson. "Figures," she grumbled. "I take it that slagger has been running to anyone that owes him a favor?"

"I don't know what a slagger is, but you are correct on that last point. He's been crying foul to everyone that will listen since the committee voted in your favor. Rumor has it that the President, himself, had to slap the man with a gag order. Otherwise he would have run straight to the press."

Mentally, Lydia cursed herself for both the slip in using Autobot curses outside the base and also for miscalculating Glickson's wounded pride. "That's so idiotic," she spat. "No, it's beyond idiotic. It's like… like _weapon's grade_ levels of stupidity. He's not only going to destroy his own creditability but also his standing as a senator. He's supposed to be able to keep secrets."

Josh frowned. "It will only destroy his credibility if things don't end in his favor. If he manages to unveil the presence of the aliens, it might not only raise up his credibility, but might also push him that much closer to his overall goal—that of the Presidency."

"I'll eat my ballot before I ever waste it voting for him," she muttered darkly… and then came to a sudden halt, the thought that entered her mind almost freezing her heart. "Why did you volunteer to take this assignment? Your project is global defense from orbit, not ground deployment. Seriously, why would someone as decorated as you stoop down to escort duty for a bunch of puffed up budget drones?"

He stopped, turned to face her. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I have to know whose side you are on. Mine, or Glickson's."

"I'm sincerely hoping that you are joking, Lydia," he warned. "Accusing me of siding with Glickson goes far beyond simple teasing. And there is only _one _side in this equation. We are wearing the uniforms that prove it."

She shook her head, taking off her sunglasses and staring at him. Truly seeing him and not the rugged good looks or the imposing and commanding presence of his uniform. Truly seeing the man he was now and not the ghost of what she wanted him to be. "Joshua, again, you know better. We're politicians now, whether we like it or not. And in politics there are more sides than I can count. I need to know where you stand on this."

"On what?"

"Don't play games with me. You know what."

Joshua pursed his lips for a long moment before slowly dragging his gaze back up to hers. "I still can't abide the fact that they are here," he said slowly, reaching out and grabbing her upper arm as she tried to spin away from him. "Let me finish, please. It's the least you can do for accusing me of siding with Glickson's idiocy over the law.

"Regardless of what I _feel_," he continued. "What I _am _is loyal to this country. I take my oath very seriously, Lydia. If our government has decided to allow them to stay, then I will go along with that order. And so far, it has. Part of my oath is protecting lives, and if this mining project will help save lives, I'm all for it."

"Human lives," she retorted. "That's all you and Glickson can see. But if the government suddenly decides that the aliens aren't welcome?" She asked, bitterness boiling over in her voice.

"I'll shed no tear over their departure," he said evenly, releasing her with a tired sigh. "Lydia, let's not do this here and now. I know the set of your jaw and can see the argument brewing behind your eyes. Get on the plane and I promise we can talk about it after the tour, among other things."

"'Among other things' translates into 'why have you been avoiding me?'" she crossed her arms over her chest. "I can see that plainly enough in your eyes."

"Can you blame me?" he hissed, the sudden anger returning, his eyes flashing the color of good strong flint. But there was also pain in those depths, and wounded pride that she had yet to return any of his calls. "Lydia, I know you love me. And you know I've loved you from almost the first moment we met. It can't be fear that's keeping you from answering me. One of the things I've always loved about you is that you won't back down. Not when you know you're right about something."

She stood there waiting, hoping and praying that some sort of emotion would zoom through her systems and light up her optics. Granted, that was the way Arcee described how she felt when she first met Hot Rod, but Lydia couldn't help hoping for that kind of reaction. She wanted to feel her 'spark pulse until it threatened to melt her spark chamber' or at least the human equivalent of it. He was saying everything right, leaving some bit of hope that she could reach him one day. She should have felt _something. _At the very least, bitterness for his piss-poor attitude should have changed the lust and caring into resentment.

Moments went by and turned into seconds, and the seconds turned into minutes, and… nothing.

Granted, most of her body was all but screaming out in need, wanting to feel his hands all over her skin again. Just that brief contact when his hand had gripped her upper arm like hot steal had set her insides on fire. It didn't matter that she was furious with the man, outraged over his narrow-minded views of life. She was a warrior, a solider, and for her the thrill of a battle (verbal or physical) had always been a powerful turn-on. Adding to that her insane weakness for the man… Her body, the chemistry that made her human, screamed out for him. The fact that it would be a horrible mistake to be with him again wasn't even a consideration. Her body wanted what it wanted. Her mind was hostage to that need.

Sweat beaded and trickled between her shoulder blades, her pulse thick in her throat. But it wasn't lighting up her eyes. Lust never lit up anything, she realized sadly. It only darkened her view, narrowed it down to the wanting of just one thing in just that one moment of time. What Arcee described was like suddenly finding out you had three-hundred and sixty degree vision, and that nothing in the world or the future could be hidden from you if you only took the chance to look.

Deep inside, she wanted to light up, not fall into tunnel vision. Everything else would be pointless until she could.

"I can't do this here," she said, rubbing at her temples. "Josh, I need to be focused on the tour. I can't... I just can't think about this now."

He nodded stiffly, taking a step away before she could see the look passing through his eyes. "Okay," he said, voice carefully neutral. "After the tour. I want your promise that you'll stay the night in D.C. and we will talk this through."

She winced slightly, thinking about the meetings already set up back at NEST. More than that, she thought about her promise to Grimlock, and how the dinobot had asked Wheeljack to make him a huge 7-day calendar. On it were the dates in which she had been gone. Wheeljack had sent a picture to her phone, one of Grimlock holding his favorite giant purple sparkly crayon as he crossed off one of the days. It would have been utterly and ridiculously cute if not for the additional day the bot had added. Written in broken English on that day was "Lydia late. Go to D.C. Eat bad-guys."

Wheeljack hadn't sent the picture as a cute and sentimental moment (though secretly she knew the bot had more than his fair share of those), but more as a reminder as to what would happen if she broke her promise.

"Let me clear it with NEST," She said aloud, and then nearly growled in frustration as he rolled his eyes. "What? You think they don't depend on me? That we don't follow military protocols? I'm still in uniform, Joshua Eddard. I'm under the command of—"

"Yes," he cut off, steal-colored eyes glittering dangerously. "I know very well who your commanding officer is. And if I had my way, no one would be forced to serve under him again."

"Him, who?" she asked softly, just as deadly. Unable to believe what she had just heard come out of his mouth. "Optimus Prime or William Lennox?"

Joshua looked as if he had a mouthful of something repulsive and was forced to swallow it. "We'll speak later, after the tour. Like you, I have to focus on the assignment at hand. Get on the plane, Lydia. If you can't stay the night, at least give me your undivided attention once we get on the ground when all this is over."

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Are those Stuart Weitzman's?"

The question took her off guard, and Lydia spun around. As much as she hated to admit it, the fight with Joshua still sang in her veins, anger-born adrenaline turning her tired mind into a weapon of war. She was looking for a reason to strike out at something, wanting nothing more than this whole trip to be over already. She wanted to go home to Diego Garcia, to the hot acrid desert-like climate and the sentients she knew and loved. At least Ironhide or Prowl or even Sunstreaker wouldn't chastise her over the direction her life had taken. The most criticism she had ever received was over her personal choice of protection.

Ironhide thought she needed something bigger and with more firepower than her trusty Sig Sauer automatic pistol. Sunstreaker was insistent that she learn to use a sword, if for no other reason that he loved the way he looked while teaching sword techniques. Bumblebee and Brawn were all about hand-to-hand brawling. Weapons could be taken away or destroyed, they reasoned, but your fists never jammed and were always ready for a fight.

She missed them right now, badly. Even Sunstreaker's near sociopathic arrogance was missed. And it was all Joshua's fault, she thought blackly. This should have been her moment of triumph, her time of joy. Here she was, leading the entire committee to inspect the smelting facility in West Virginia that Ratchet and Wheeljack had both agreed was an excellent if basic prototype for what they would need. She should have been on Cloud Nine, full of energy and sass.

Instead, she was miserable and tired and cranky. And apparently about to bite the head off of a perfectly innocent committee member.

"Yes," she said, forcing back the scathing retort that was really only meant for one man.

The woman, one Janet Evengii, if memory served, continued to stare down in awe at Lydia's shoes. The navy colored leather peep-toe pumps with the slight platformed heel had cost her more than she was willing to admit. But they had been her congratulation gift to herself for beating Glickson at his own game. In fact, in the bag she now carried rested a few congratulation gifts for her Autobot friends as well. Souvenirs that she knew they would adore.

She let that thought calm her racing heart and she took a deep breath. "Yes," she said again, smiling slightly. "Fresh off the runway of Milan."

Janet gaped at her. "I didn't even know those were available in the states."

Okay, Lydia had to admit that she liked this woman. Any woman that not only recognized quality shoes but also the rare availability of said shoes deserved respect… not anger. "They aren't," she quipped, nearly laughing out loud at the way Janet's eyes nearly bugged out of her head. "I had them rush delivered for today. Dashing, aren't they?"

"A work of art," Janet breathed. "I didn't think they were selling to the public yet. Considering those shoes were chosen to feature in the movie 'Fame.' Is that movie even out yet?"

Lydia laughed, letting go of the last of her anger. "They aren't selling, yet. But I've been a longtime customer of Weitzman's, so they made an exception. You're Janet Evengii, right?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am," Janet said shyly, blushing a deep scarlet. "Janet Evengii of the EPA side of the committee. It's an honor to meet you, Lieutenant. You're a hero of mine."

Lydia lifted an eyebrow. "A hero, really? Now I'm honored. Come and sit with me?"

"I'd be delighted," Janet beamed a smile of pure excitement, following Lydia to a pair of seats near the back of the jet. "I'm so glad you proposed this trip. Is it true that you work side by side with the aliens?"

"Autobots," she corrected, probably sharper than she should have, judging by the way that Janet flinched. She sighed. "Sorry, it's been a long week and I'm tired. They prefer to be called Autobots, and yes, I work along side them."

"I've always wanted to meet one," Janet put in, fastening her seat belt. "I don't care what people like Senator Glickson says, I think it's fantastic that we are sharing our planet with them. Think of the things that we can learn from each other eventually."

_She's a fangirl,_ Lydia thought, trying really hard not to smile too much. _I can't believe it. No one outside of designated personnel has seen the Autobots and already they have fan clubs. I can't wait to tell Arcee about this._

"In time, I'm sure we will," Lydia answered diplomatically, not wanting to take that earnest shine from Janet's eyes. It was so refreshing to meet someone that wasn't against Cybertronians that she didn't want to dampen Janet's enthusiasm with the fact that nothing would be shared until humans as a whole got their acts together. Which didn't look like it was going to happen during either of their lifetimes.

She glanced up as the last of the passengers took their seats, picking out familiar faces like Dr. Tam and a few others. It was what she didn't see that made her frown. "I know I'm tempting fate by saying this, but isn't Glickson supposed to be with us?"

Janet made a face like she was swallowing a lemon. "Not this time, thankfully. He got a call shortly before you arrived. His grand-daughter is giving birth to his great-grandson as we speak. The man was practically crowing with glee as he ran off the plane. Wilbur Archibald Glickson the fifth will join his happy family in a matter of hours."

"The fifth?" Lydia groaned, rubbing at her temples. "You mean there are four more Glickson's out there?"

"And each one of them involved in politics, too," Janet patted her hand sympathetically. "From a proud southern family dating themselves back before the Civil War. Makes you glad to be from the north, doesn't it?"

Lydia chuckled. "Okay, Janet. I like you. You're welcomed to sit next to me any time."

"You sure about that?"

Lydia looked up then, following Janet's gaze. Joshua sat a few seats away, every so often flicking a glance at them. The look wasn't friendly. The annoyance bubbled up into her eyes. "Yeah, I'm certain. Ignore him."

Janet shifted in her seat uncomfortably. "Look, I don't want to get in the middle of—"

"No, it's fine. We're both big kids. We can handle ourselves and our tempers," Lydia replied, trying another friendly smile. She pulled out her cell phone as the plane started to taxi towards the runway. Punching in a number, the smile on her lips became genuine. "Hey Grumpy," she drawled. "We're on to stage two. Heading for the factory inspection as we speak…"

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was Joshua that noticed it first, the slight variation in the vibrations beneath their feet. He stood up slowly, frowning, eyes gone cold and distant as duty replaced whatever thoughts that had been there before. Janet noticed it second, and only because of two things that happened simultaneously: the scary Air Force Captain's expression changing from that of quiet brooding to cool calculation, and the ripples in her club soda changing direction for a moment. Her hand landed on Lydia's shoulder.

"Just tell Grimlock that it's one more day," she was saying into her phone, her tone mixed shades of seriousness and amusement. "I promised him I was coming home. I didn't promise the exact date of it."

"You are more than welcome to explain the intricacies of human speech and phrasing patterns to him when you return," Wheeljack interjected darkly. "I'm not going to be held accountable for the consequences, though. I have enough problems of my own."

"You got that right," Ratchet put in, the sound of a drill echoing through his part of the connection. That was followed up by the _hiss-puff_ sound of a welding instrument being activated. "You still haven't perfected the drill yet."

"I'm working on it," the other snapped, and then made a hissing-chirping noise as the sound of sparking metal filtered through the connection.

"Don't curse at me, boy," Ratchet huffed. "I'm only fixing what you broke. Unless you want that servo to go on being misaligned? Good luck with your drilling then."

Lydia couldn't help the grin that nearly split her face. "I take it you're in med bay right now, 'Jack?"

"Yes," Ratchet answered before the other bot could. "Nearly blew his arm off at the middle gear."

"It was worth it," Wheeljack hurriedly put in. "Almost have the drill reconfigured. Give me ten earth days and it'll be complete."

"Take your time," Lydia laughed. "It will take the committee at least that long to approve the smelting facility. Then we get to debate where to put the thing."

Both bots vented air at that, the Cybertronian equivalent to not saying something when there was nothing nice to say. It made her laugh all the more. "In all seriousness, I need you to ask Optimus to talk to Grimlock for me. There is no way I can come home tonight."

"I am here," Optimus said over the connection. "What has occurred to delay your return?"

Lydia blinked down at her phone, blushing slightly. "Not that I'm complaining, but just how many bots are on this conference call?" she asked, putting the phone back to her ear.

"All the bots that matter," Sunstreaker said.

"And most that don't," Ironhide returned, the grin evident in his voice.

"Is that comment pointed at anyone in particular?" Sunstreaker snapped.

"I don't know," the other rumbled, obviously baiting the younger bot. "Should it be?"

"Quiet down," Optimus cut in, his voice brooking no argument. "Lydia?"

"I'm fine," she assured them. "Just some last minute details to tie up. I wasn't anticipating the overwhelming support for our plan—"

She cut off as Janet's hand landed on her shoulder. It wasn't the touch that made her pause in mid-sentence. It was the trembling in that hand that did it. "Janet, what's going on?"

The other woman pointed up at Josh… and that was the moment in which everything changed. Later on, she would recall noticing the strange vibration in the plane at that time. She would remember Optimus and the others trying to get her attention through the tiny speaker of her cell phone. When her brain would allow it, she would also recall crossing to the window where Dr. Tam and Joshua knelt, staring out at the sky with worried expressions, Janet following closely at her heels.

And then she would recall the hysterical screaming from most of the passengers, of how she stumbled backward as a terrifyingly familiar pair of red optics viciously appeared in that tiny window. She would recall how she lifted a numbed hand to her ear and said the following words in a shock-filled voice. "Starscream is here. Optimus, tell Grimlock I'm sorry that I'm breaking my promise and not coming home. And Ratchet, god, I should have told you that I—"

The first bullet ripped through the cabin... and the depressurization began.


	16. Chapter 16 Fear

A/N: Apologies to everyone who were left hanging by that last chapter. I wish I could have had the time to add more, but alas, real life took precedence and sucked me away from my computer. Trust me, both Grimlock and Ratchet were particularly annoyed and I've been threatened with verbal wrenches should I not complete this part of the story in a timely manner. ::cringes and hides::. But I must once again thank everyone who reads and comments, or who just reads and enjoys the story of Lydia's life. This wasn't planned to go on as long as it has, however Lydia and crew aren't finished talking and as such I will continue to write!

This chapter may have come off wrong. I have no point of reference for reliving a traumatic experience and can only express a sense of utter confusion as past and present collide. I hope I did that well enough to not sound like Lydia was going insane. I'll let you all be the judge. :)

Once again, I do not own Transformers or anyone in this story save for my OCs. I do not plan to make any money off of this nor have I at all. Please don't sue. This is only for fun.

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Pain exploded in her head, spreading down her neck and through her body like wildfire. The blazing agony blinded her, slammed her backward until her head cracked hard against the deck. She writhed, unable to believe that now of all times she would have a migraine, that the headache that had come back behind her eye since that conversation with Arcee would pick this exact moment to blaze to life. Her left arm twisted under her, mirroring the pain in her head, acting as if it were on fire all over again.

Lydia screamed, the sound lost amid the myriads of others and the dying metallic groans of the plane. Her world had become a chaotic maelstrom of shrieks and blurred images, and layered over that was the unforgettable, mind-numbing, conniving voice of Starscream. She couldn't make out the words over the terrified yells of both the human passengers and the tortured metal that had once been the cabin of an airplane. Part of her was certain that the words themselves mattered very little, that only the consequences were of value to the Decepticon. That, and the horrific crying that they caused.

Some part of her was sickeningly aware of the fact that Starscream enjoyed moments like these. She didn't know how she knew this. Just that she did.

But that moment of clarity was short lived, and the unbearable pain sucked her under once again. She wanted to die, to curl up into a ball and shriek until her voice gave out. It was too much, this pain. It felt as if someone were shoving red-hot glass into her implanted eye, stabbing over and over into her brain. It also didn't help that her insides were tangled with a remembered gut-wrenching fear, the memories of her first run-in with Starscream rising to the surface. The dark thoughts flooded over the present, egged on by the unrelenting pain, enfolding and mixing with the events around her until she couldn't remember where one ended and the other began. Confusion raced through her system. Heavy pressure slammed against her body, hot coppery liquid pouring down her face and into her mouth when she screamed. _Blood!_, her mind yowled in terror. Someone had died, and their corpse had pinned her neatly to the deck. She couldn't move, and that more than any remembered horror brought on instant panic.

In her nightmares, she had been able to at least reach the eject handle. Now... now with the crush of people and wind and pressure of rocketing across the sky at thirty-thousand feet, all she could do was scream. And scream... and scream... and scream...

"LYDIA!" Josh bellowed, his powerful voice full of command and seeming to come from everywhere at once. "Phoenix, god, tell me you are still here! I need you!"

It was that bellow that cut through the panic, the familiar sound of a voice that offered salvation slicing through the confusion. It grounded her to the present, chased away the ghosts of the past. It was her captain! She could hear his voice this time. She wasn't alone. Trapped in that plane, going down in literal flames, she had been solitary in her terror. But this time her captain was with her... when he wasn't at her side during that first life-shattering encounter with the Decepticons. That bit of knowledge worked its way through the wracking terror of past and present, an odd counter-point to the reality of the situation. Why hadn't she realized before that he had not been with her during the attack on Mission City? Where had he gone? What had happened in the three minutes it had taken Starscream to kill her best friends and ruin her life?

"PHOENIX!" Josh bellowed again.

"LIEUTENANT!"

That last scream poured from another familiar voice, or _voices_, she realized. It was a dual wail of agony, and it took her a few moments to sort out the voices. One belonged to Dr. Song-Ming Tam, the other to Janet Evengii. Their voices snapped her back into the present hard and fast. People were dying, and there she was wallowing in her past like a coward. It just wasn't right.

"HERE!" she screamed above the wind, clawing out from beneath the unconscious body of some committee member. "Janet, Dr. Tam! I'm here!"

Two pair of strong hands wrapped around her wrist, pulling her up to her hands and knees. It was then that she realized not just one body, but three, had fallen on top of hers, shot through with bullets too large to have come from human guns. She wore their blood, tasted it on her tongue, felt it keenly in the howling wind. Three more lives taken by the war, three more faces that would haunt her dreams. She forced those faces into her memory, branding them right next to Eclipse and Spiral. The images became like fuel to a conflagration in her skull, burning through the agony of her migraine, melting her fear.

"Josh!" She screamed, reaching to hold onto one of the remaining bolted-down seats.

Lydia forced herself to open her eyes. What she wouldn't give to have kept them closed, to not to have to carry these images with her for the rest of her days. However, that wasn't an option for someone like herself, or for many that were on the plane. She dug down deep for the training she had once thought to never need again, and made herself assess the situation. It only mildly surprised her when her implanted cybernetic eye focused crystal clear, the need to squint to protect the delicate eye tissue gone. If anything, that damned orb saw better than crystal clear. With each stab of pain through her head, her sight in that eye seemed to grow clearer, stronger… until she could count the rivets in the welded steel above her head.

Until she could see the contours of the clouds that raced paced them overhead.

The roof was gone, torn away like some savage overgrown child peeling away the wrapping paper from a coveted Christmas gift. Slowly now that child was peeling the sides away, taking perverted delight in each and every human that came spilling out of the fissures. He wasn't even kind enough to use the humans as target practice as they fell, preferring to let them plummet to their horrific end. That fueled the anger, too, eating away at the pain until she nearly vibrated with rage.

She wasn't aware that her left hand was twisting the steel of the chair she gripped, or that Janet and Dr. Tam shied away from her as best they could because of it. The world had taken on a blue-tinge in her rage, almost as if her eye glowed with it. But that was a fact that she put away, much like the knowledge that Josh had been absent during those critical moments during the Mission city battle. It wasn't necessary to her survival at the moment, but it also wasn't to be forgotten.

No, it definitely wouldn't be forgotten. As soon as they were clear of this mess, she would get her answers. And if she had anything to say about it, they _would_ get through this.

Another section of the haul was stripped off, and the plane dipped wildly before straightening itself. She caught sight of Joshua flat on the deck, crawling and clawing his way towards the cockpit. Inwardly, she nodded, taking some silent order from his actions. He was going to take care of keeping the plane steady. She would take care of the passengers before joining him. She knew better than to question that order. Working with him as long as she had had left a rapport between them that went beyond words.

At least when combat was present.

"Janet, wedge yourself between the seats and hold on as tight as you can!" She screamed over the wind, turning back to probably the only person in the world that had a hope of saving them all: Dr. Song-Ming Tam, PhD in aeronautics. "Dr. Tam, do you know anything about the design of this plane?"

Song-Ming nodded rapidly, leveraging herself forward until she was practically kissing Lydia. "I helped design the prototype." She shouted.

"Do you know the most structurally sound part of the plane?"

"The hold," she screamed. "It was designed with the same materials of Air Force One, designed to protect the President in case of a crash landing. A nuclear device could go off and still the people inside would be safe."

Lydia could only hope that that would be enough. "Get as many in there as you can. Get Janet to help you," she started to crawl forward. "Once you are inside, seal it off and pray."

Song-Ming grabbed her arm, eyes widening. "Where are you going? Once it's sealed, it's sealed. No one can get in!"

"Someone has to land this plane, Doctor. My Captain is heading that way. I can't let him do it alone."

"NO! Listen to me! There is a special Autopilot control on this plane as on Air Force One. Remote activated and controlled from a source outside of the plane. Code should be secured beneath the co-pilot's seat. Set it and get back to us, do you hear me! There is no need for macho heroics. Set it and get back to us!"

"Another Secret Service surprise the rest of us aren't supposed to know about?"

Song-Ming actually took the time to shrug. "They can jail me if I survive this. Now go!"

Lydia nodded once, and taking a deep breath, launched herself forward towards the cockpit.

~*~*~*~*~*~

They weren't going to make it in time.

Captain William Lennox knew that deep in his heart, as did almost everyone huddled into Jetfire's hold. They weren't going to make it in time to save Lydia, but maybe they would be in time to save some lives. Maybe, if they were lucky, they would arrive soon enough to take down the Decepitcon bastard. Maybe, if Lady Fate had decided to be kind, they would be able to trace at least one Decepticon back to their latest lair. Maybe, if extreme luck was their lot, they would find some recognizable part of Lydia to give a proper burial.

Will shook his head, lips compressing in a thin line. There were far too many 'maybe's' in that line of thought. And none of them had a happy ending.

He flicked a glance towards the back of the hold, trying hard to block out the overwhelming pulse of Jetfire's engines as the old mech literally hauled ass across the sky. Most normal plane flights from the base wouldn't even hit American airspace in under six hours. Jetfire, as most of the flight-capable Autobots, could crank that trip out in two. One and a half if he pushed it. If the sound of the sky rushing past was any indication, Jetfire was flying for all he was worth.

Ratchet, Ironhide, Grimlock, Skids and Mudflap were crammed into the back in their alt modes, the former nearly quivering with his rage. Ironhide and the twins flanked the medic, while Grimlock growled every so often from behind him. Will had protested vehemently at taking the Dinobot along at first, citing over and over again how the huge Autobot was less than inconspicuous on a good day. Adding in the fact that the bot was just as furious over Lydia's situation as Ratchet was, and you had a recipe for utter disaster.

Optimus had not seen it that way, and as they were scrambling to get gear and Autobots loaded into Jetfire, the Prime had pulled Will aside and explained. If Starscream was ripping apart a plane in mid-flight over the nation's capital, then the need for any kind of secrecy was gone. Secondly, if Lydia was offlined by the time they got there, it would take more than Ironhide and the twins to restrain Ratchet without permanently offlining him. While Grimlock may not have been the smartest solider, he was still compassionate enough not to let innocent humans come to harm if one of their own lost control.

One only had to think about the reasons why Grimlock had stolen Lydia's briefcase a week ago to understand.

Again, Will shook his head, his emotions in a state of conflict over the woman. She had presented herself as an ally, a friend and a fellow warrior. What little of her records that Epps had managed to wrangle free from government lock-down reflected a decorated woman of courage and dependability. Everything they saw pointed to someone that they would be honored to have on their team. It was everything they _didn't _see that still left him twisting in the wind in regards to her. They had seen nothing to warrant such high level encryptions to her files.

And the upper echelons had refused his request for access almost before he had finished issuing it.

Lydia DeMarco was an enigma, all right. For as much as she frustrated him with her secrets, the fact that several sentients in this plane with him were damn-near worried sick about her spoke volumes to her character. He would fight to bring her home to Diego Garcia, if for no other reason than she meant so much to those the cared about. He could only pray that they would get there in time.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The wind was punishing, a pulverizing force that stole breath from lungs and made every muscle in her body wail in protest. She kept her one eye shut tight, letting her implant relay all the information she needed. People still screamed, though the sounds were less and less now, the number of humans left alive greatly decreased. And still the psychotic bastard peeled away layer after layer of steel plating, skinning the plane as if in substitute for skinning those inside.

Lydia could only hope that the lessening of screams meant that Dr. Tam was succeeding in pulling people down into the emergency hold. All she could do was make her way to the cockpit, and hope there was enough engine and power left to angle the crash-landing. If they dropped like a stone, it wouldn't matter what fire rating was plastered over that hold. The impact force alone would shatter the people inside like glass.

Starscream continued his work, and she had to bite down on the fear, on the scream that wedged itself in her throat like an inflated balloon, as she crawled past him. He either didn't notice the human slug, or though its feeble attempts to reach the control room amusing. Either way, he didn't stop in his amusement. Apparently he was content in the knowledge that everyone on board was going to die and there was nothing that could be done about it. He might be right, she thought, but she wasn't going to go down without a fight.

She owed it to the Autobots to at least go out like a warrior. She owed it to Ratchet to not give up and die.

"What the blue blazes are you doing?!" Joshua snapped as she dropped into the co-pilot's seat. "Why aren't you securing the others, Phoenix? Get the hell out of here!"

"What, and let you have all the glory?" she snapped back more out of habit than any attempt at humor. She grabbed the control stick, slapping switches and gauges. And tried not to notice the fact that the original flight team was missing, or that one window of the cockpit looked as if it were torn away instead of blown out by pressure. "We don't have much time. Where will this course take us?"

"Farmland," Joshua answered between gritted teeth, swiping at eyes blurry from tears. Wind raced through the cockpit from one of the shattered windows, his face cut and scratched from the shards. "What about the committee?"

"Tam has them in the hold. Best that could be done. I take it the radio's out?"

"First thing that _monster_ took down," he gritted. "Same with navigation. Wanted us blind and deaf before he destroyed us."

"Sounds like him," she yelled back. "But the autopilot is still functioning. We need to set it and get back to the hold."

"Impossible! Autopilot is based on the navigation computer," He actually took the time to glance at her… and then did a double take. "Fuck me, Phoenix! Your eye… I swear it's _glowing!_ What the hell are—"

"No time for that," she cut him off, heart pounding from an all new kind of fear… a fear she wasn't going to let herself acknowledge at the moment. Much like the memory of Mission City and his absence, she pushed it away for a later time. _If_they were going to have a later time. "This autopilot is wired like Air Force One. Ground controlled nav computer. We set it and run."

He shook his head, and they both braced themselves as the plane rocked and bucked beneath them. "Dammit," he cursed. "Lost engines one and two. He's going after the fuel system!"

"Then we don't have time!" Lydia dug under the seat, rapidly feeling for the card Song-Ming had described. "Got it!" She punched in the code, relaying the coordinates for the landing. "Josh, we've got to go!"

He shook his head again, stubbornly. "No. I do not trust your life to a machine. I told you that I loved you. Now get in that fucking hold and don't look back."

She gaped at him, truly and utterly gaped at him, and all that rage inside boiled to the forefront. "You selfish son of a bitch!" she seethed… and clocked him as hard as she could with her left hand. His head snapped back, his body unprepared for the assault. Joshua slumped back against the seat, out cold. Lydia shook her hand, fingers already swelling from the hard thickness of his jaw. "You tell me you love me and then want to up and die? Of all the selfish, macho bullshit things to do…"

Lydia drug him out of the seat, feeling the implant in her left arm grinding in protest. She embraced the pain, used it to fuel her resolve. For once she didn't care if Starscream saw her dragging another human across his path. She would get to that hold one way or another. As the flames erupted around her in the cockpit, she only prayed that they would get there alive.


	17. Chapter 17 Crashing

A/N: Thank you all for bearing with me and the horrible cliff hangers that I am dumping on you. I wish that wasn't the case lately, however I only have so much time to write in a given period. Which means part of the story has to wait for a later time. ::hides behind Prime, Grimlock, Prowl, Ironhide, Ratchet, Jazz, Cliffjumper, Brawn, the twins (both major and minor sets) and hopes that she will not get lynched:: This part of the story arc will come to a close within the next chapter or two, and the cliffhangers will go away.

On a side note, I noticed that in one chapter I referred to Jetfire and then in the next I referred to Skyfire. This is my fault and for that I apologize. All references should have been to Jetfire. I know that the two names are interchangable as the same character in most fics, websites, etc... I am simply used to the G1 cartoon, and thus I am more partial to the name of Skyfire. Alas, however, this story is mostly written for the movieverse with a few exceptions here and there ::looks pointedly at Grimlock and Prowl:: to make things more interesting. More G1 characters are expected to pop up in the story as it rolls along. I can't help it. I'm a G1 girl all the way. So please take any mention of Skyfire and turn it into Jetfire. I will try very hard to be more alert to this in the future.

As always, I do not own Transformers or anything in this story save for my OCs. Please don't sue. This is strictly for fun.

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Her hair was on fire.

The flaming ends whipped about in the wind, striking her face like a million minuscule branding irons. Lydia bit back the curse forming on her lips. Not that she had breath left to give vent to the words, she thought bitterly. All her energy, her focus, her very essence was set on getting to the rear of the plane alive. All she had to do was cross the expanse of the cabin area without falling out the sideless plane, or without being blown off by the buffeting winds.

Or without being smashed to a pulp by the ever-present Starscream. Piece of cake, right?

She shoved Josh's weight out of the cockpit door and flung herself into the open space. The bright side of the whole situation was that Josh was, with no pun intended, dead weight. He wasn't struggling or pushing himself upright, offering the least resistance to the hammering winds. And the winds themselves did her the small kindness of blowing out the flames in her hair, on her clothing. Small comforts in the chaotic hell of the moment.

The plane listed sharply to the right, throwing her to the ground. Impact tremors rocked what was left of the steel frame, first one and then the other, moving in sequential order. Moving in sequential order _towards_her. Shit. Starscream was on the move. He'd obviously noticed the tiny human scurrying like an ant, dragging one of its own across the deck. Her blue eye focused sharply, feeling as if that sight grew brighter and stronger the closer the Decepticon moved to her. The pain in her head increased with each step he took, a steady rhythm of misery that threatened to throw her back to the deck in helpless distress.

She bent double on her knees, one arm wrapped around one of the remaining chairs, the other draped diagonally across Josh's midsection over his left shoulder, securing him tightly. Sorrow welled in her stomach, bitter and acrid, along with the knowledge that the hold doors were less than ten feet away. And there she was helpless with pain. She had made it so far, only to fall so short in reaching that goal of precious salvation. It just wasn't fair!

Then, as if to add insult to injury, the retching began. Nausea from the pain purging her system of the little breakfast she had managed to consume that morning. A small part of her wished desperately for Starscream to just shoot her already, to end the misery and distress, the utter embarrassment of knowing that a migraine could cripple her even when people counted on her to save their lives. She heaved until nothing came out, until the dizziness washed over her and muted the pain for a moment. She glanced upward out of reflex, opening her eyes—

—and found herself close enough to the Decepticon that she could have kissed him if she wanted.

"How does it feel, human, to know your doom is at hand?" The Seeker taunted, his metallic face inches from her own.

For once she was thankful for the partial cover that Joshua's body provided. Her face was half-hidden behind his shoulder and head, her human eye flowing with tears due to wind sheer as it focused in horror at the mech. She was so close to the nightmarish creature that she could see herself reflected back in those red orbs. Her face was a mess with lines of blood, her lower lip split and torn, what was left of her hair almost boyishly short. The expensive Vera Wang suit was nothing more than ragged shreds, her beloved shoes lost only god knew when. In short, her image looked as if she were already dead. Already burning in a red hell for crimes she wasn't sure she committed.

Fear cleaved her tongue to the roof of her mouth, teeth chattering so hard she was certain that one or two would crack and break. She clung to Josh, fighting the need to bury her head into his neck, to cradle him as she died. Because that was what she saw in the Seeker's optics: her death. He desired it like one could desire a flavor, rolling it around in his processors with delight.

The Seeker laughed, tilting his head this way and that, the sound reverberating down her spine until she whimpered. "Nothing to say to me, human? And here I thought you were different from the rest by your actions. Though, you are _human_," he spat the word like a curse, like it was something dirty and foul. "I should learn not to expect so much from your limited species."

He drew back, one arm extending forward, the hand portion vanishing in favor of a gun similar to one she had seen on Jetfire before.

And it was at that particular moment, when faced with her own demise, that her tongue chose to unglue itself from the top of her mouth. "You missed." She surprised herself by saying.

Evidently, that surprised the Decepticon as well. "What?" Starscream hissed, optics narrowing dangerously.

"Misson City," Lydia yelled into the wind, digging in deep to find the courage. "Eight planes in two flights. First flight destroyed Blackout."

Starscream lowered the gun. The plane rocked again as the massive mech lowered himself once more to eye level with the human. "If you expect me to be angry for the loss of a comrade, think again, fleshling. Blackout's demise was nothing but a boon to me. One less rival for the throne that is rightfully mine."

Lydia whimpered again, holding Joshua's unconscious body all the closer. Her fingers reached down for his belt, intending to grab him and haul him up closer. What they closed around was his favorite ceramic glock pistol, the one everyone teased him about. The one that could slip past almost any security check in the world. The one that was outdated by everyone else's standards. While the rest of the world traded in their glocks for the Sig Sauer, Josh had steadfastly refused to give up his 'old reliable.' She wanted to kiss him right then and there for being such a stubborn son of a bitch.

Her fingers wrapped around the grip, feeling strength and a strange kind of calmness flow through her just by being armed. The clouds rocketed past them, the earth finally forming a horizon line to contrast with the sky. They didn't have much time left. Soon the angled landing would send them skipping across the chosen farmland like a stone across water. And if she wasn't in the cargo hold by that time, there wouldn't be anything left of her to bury.

She forced herself to shake her head, to hold into the hope that somehow she could get out of this alive. "Not that," she shook her head, praying the rush of wind and twisting metal would mask the sound of the safety clicking off the gun. "The third plane you destroyed from the second flight of F-22's. You missed."

"Perhaps your processors are faulty, human," the mech purred, eliciting another cry of terror from his victim. "I destroyed all the planes from both flights."

"There were survivors," she challenged.

Starscream smiled wickedly, showing every fang attached to his gory mouth plates. "Hardly," he scoffed. "As you humans say, I always hit what I am at."

The smile that curved her split lip almost matched his. "Strong boast," Lydia snarled and sat up straight, bringing both of her eyes into view. "But this time I think it's uncalled for. _You. Missed_. The proof is right here. I was there, Starscream, and I _lived_!"

Starscream jerked his head back a moment in surprise, and then leaned in closer. She felt pain explode through her nervous system, fire dance across her skin. She shrieked, nearly lost her grip on the gun, feeling the Seeker's unmodified scan pierce her body down to the bone and beyond. Ratchet's scan had been gentle, no doubt dialed down to acceptable levels for human tolerance. Starscream either didn't consider the option or otherwise didn't care. The whole scan took less than two seconds, and left her feeling as if her body had gone three rounds with Mike Tyson.

"Impressive," The Seeker said, almost as if to himself. "Your kind has found a way to augment yourselves. Perhaps you aren't like the other humans after all. Perhaps I should take you alive and see for myself what you humans have done with our technology. Tell me where you got these implants, human, and I may let you live a bit longer."

"My secret," she gasped, trying to sit up straight under her own power.

He smiled again, chuckling until it felt like her eardrums would rupture from the sound. "You have no secrets from me, fleshling. Or at least you won't when I am finished with you. Let the other organic go and come with me, or die here and come with me. Either way, your parts belong to me now."

It was the way he said those horrible words that scared her the most. There was no threat, no boast, no emotions behind them. They were clinical and conversational, as if his words were fact and not an option. She stared back up into those red optics and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had made a claim on her. He would have his answers, from both her brain and her flesh. It was up to her as to whether she would live through the process or have him desecrate her corpse. The knowledge shook her like nothing else.

Her hand tightened on the gun, as if her flesh had made its decision without consulting her brain. It would rather be dead than alive when it was examined. And apparently her heart and brain jumped on that bandwagon because her mouth flew into action.

"There's another human phrase I think you need to understand," she screamed at him.

He leaned in closer, extending one clawed finger towards her, as if to scrape Joshua from her arms like one would scrape a flea from a favorite pet. "And that would be?"

"An eye for an eye."

She raised the gun and pulled the trigger. Her aim was true, and the Seeker did not have time to re-engage the shields he'd lowered in order to collect his human toy. The bullet slammed into his left optic, shattering the thing. Starscream reared back, roaring in his pain and bringing both fists down in a two-handed smash attempt. Not the most sophisticated attack for an advanced alien robotic organism, she thought wryly. But then again, it's not like the old 'Ungah! Me Smash!' wasn't effective against someone in her condition.

Lydia dove towards the hold door, barely clearing the range of the mech's fist. Adrenaline poured through her body like never before and she hefted Josh's body into a fireman's carry hold before running for all she was worth. She was screaming when Janet flung open the door and yelped when Lydia crashed into her. She was still screaming as she realized the implant in her arm had finally given out, the limb falling useless at her side. Her heart slammed against her chest so hard she feared it would splinter free of her rib cage.

Song-Ming slammed the door closed with a scream of her own, and Lydia caught the barest glimpse of Starscream lunging towards them. She closed her eyes and prayed, allowed Janet to pull her away from the door, her own body slack from pain and shock and fear and about anything else a person could feel in those moments. The combined effect was a kind of numbness, something she took as a blessing.

Because Starscream was ripping apart the exterior of the hold… and if the changing scream of the wind outside was any indication, they had about two point two seconds before impact. She crawled over to Josh, slipped one of his arms around her shoulders. Her good hand gripped his chin, tilting his battered and unconscious face towards hers. "I never would have married you, you stubborn old jerk," she whispered fondly, "But that doesn't mean I don't care. In my own way I love you, Joshua Eddard. I just wanted you to know that before we died. I love you, but not the way you want me to love you."

And as the screaming started again, as the rush of impact was nanoseconds away, she placed the tenderest of kisses on his lips… and closed her eyes.

~*~*~*~*~*~

For the Decepticon known as Ratbat, it was all about profit and loss. He had seen the merit of infiltrating human budget committees around the world long before Starscream had come up with the idea. In fact, it was the first thing that he and Soundwave had planned upon landing on Earth. If the World Wide Web the humans used for communication had taught them anything, it was that greed was the primary motivation behind the actions of the organics contained therein. The term they used was 'capitalism,' but no matter which way a bot looked at it, it was greed. Pure and simple.

Humans were so very rarely motivated by the act of doing simply because it needed doing. No, some kind of monetary incentive was always necessary. It was a flaw both he and Soundwave found of use. Exploiting it would not be hard, especially given that the humans foolishly trusted the majority of their money to electronic tracking systems.

It was easier to take control of it than it was to recharge. Any first-framed sparkling could control the planet and its human population that way.

But, of course, Starscream had noticed their plan and had inserted himself within it. Ratbat quietly seethed at that, replaying the video through his processors of how the Seeker had stomped it, waving his right as Megatron's second-in-command and acting leader of the Decepticons. They had no choice but to include him. And, like the constant reliability of their internal time calculator, the Seeker constantly and reliably made a mess of it.

But Starscream was _always right_ and any ideas that he so chose to claim were always _uniquely his_. Ratbat fought not to roll his optics. Starscream's attitude routines had gotten worse the longer he remained on the human world. Perhaps it was the residual aspects of the scientist in the Seeker, but Ratbat was certain that he was developing an unnatural fascination with these fleshlings. It had to be the main cause of the current personality flaws in their would-be leader. It was also something to be exploited at a later date.

However, things were not progressing along the projected plan.

He watched in a kind of morbid amusement as the little female fleshbag pulled out a primitive projectile weapon and used it on Starscream. His laughter was hidden behind the rushing wind, and the minicon was greatly pleased by that notion. As much as he loathed his current leader, he was smart enough to realize that the Seeker was more than able to crush him to bits. Push him too far, and it wouldn't matter how well laid out his plans for conquest were, the little bot would be offlined… permanently.

So he contented himself to watch as the female blasted out one of Starscream's optics, shouting something about an eye for an eye. The phrase had a certain merit to it, and so he filed it away, again, for later use. Instead, he contented himself to watching Starscream flail about like a fool and the fleshling to crawl to the relative safety of the cargo hold. Only then did he unfold himself from his hiding place beneath one of the seats. After all, to hang around much longer would represent a loss. There was no profit in allowing his leader to have yet another temper tantrum.

"Let's go, Starscream," he hissed, daring to land on the mech's left shoulder. So the mech couldn't see him clearly. "The organic is with the others. This plane will crash in astroseconds. We have done our duty."

Starscream growled at the little bot, ripping another layer of steel from the deck. "I want my human, and I want her alive. I have yet to repay the kindness of pain to her for this wound."

"Sounds to me like she was the one doing the repaying," Ratbat snickered. "In all seriousness, you can rip her secrets from her dead flesh. Come! The Autobots will be here in no time, or did you miss the fact that your little human was communicating with them when you made yourself known?"

He couldn't argue the logic in Ratbat's words, however much he wished to otherwise. "And what about the shard? Did your agents place it on this plane?"

The minicon nodded. "Of course. The piece of the All-Spark is here, though I doubt the idiots the Autobots would send to save _their_ human—"

"_MY _human, now. You had better get used to the idea."

Ratbat vented air through his ports, the only outward show of his utter frustration. "Fine. The Autobots that Prime will send to retrieve _YOUR_human are not the type to notice the shard. More than likely, he will send that cannon-happy glitch Ironhide or that egotistical Sideswipe or Sunstreaker or whatever the Pit his name is. Blast, I hate twins. Can never tell them apart until one is cutting you in half with an energon sword. None of the above are known for their in-depth scanning and searching methods."

Starscream chuckled. "Still bitter about that fight in the Centauri system? What was it he call you after he slicked you into parts… ah, yes, I believe it was 'bat kabobs' if memory serves."

If glares from optics could offline, Starscream would have been slagged. "Whatever. The point is that they are coming. And if my sensors are functioning correctly, that would be they in the hold of Jetfire right there in the near distance. Stick with the plan. Wait for the pit-spawn Autobots to leave and collect the shard. This is not open for negotiation."

The two lifted off as the nose of the shattered plane made first contact with the soft earth.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"It's Starscream!" Jetfire hissed, powering up his subsonic boosters in preparation to cover the last distance between the crashing plane and the Decepticon in question.

"NO!" Ratchet bellowed, going bi-pedal in a flash, stomping towards the cargo bay doors. "Jetfire, if you so much as pursue with me in your hold, I swear I will scrap whatever is left after your tango with your former associate. Now open up, or do I have to give you a new set of aft doors?"

As if to illistate the point, Ratchet un-subspaced his rifle, his targeting systems locking on to the least resistant potion of Jetfire's hold.

"Woah!" Epps cried out, raising his hands and bravely stepping between the mech and the Jetfire's wall. "Ratchet, cool it! I'm scared to death for her, too. But think, man. If there's a Seeker, there has to be more of them out there. Starscream isn't known for his solo bravery."

"He's right," Will cut in. "And our priority right now should be saving as many people on that flight as we can. Jetfire, can you lock onto the plane with any kind of tractor beam or something?"

"Not in time," the old mech said grimly. "They are going to crash before we reach them."

"Then let me out!" Ratchet roared, optics flashing a brilliant red. "I can't do anything from inside this hold. Let me out so I can do my fragging job. You do yours and bring me slagged pieces of Seeker."

"Do it," Will sighed at Jetfire, snapping safety off of his own rifle. "'Hide, you ready?"

"Always ready to kick Seeker aft," the GMC Topkick transformed as well, cannons rolling to the ready. "Point me at him."

"You, Ironhide, kill Seeker," Grimlock growled, causing everyone to jump… even the mechs. He had been so silent during the flight, so much so that many had forgotten his presence. Now, now that they were close to the battle, the Dinobot's eyes glowed almost as brightly as Ratchet's. "I go with medic. I go get Lydia. This is good plan. Jetfire open doors _NOW_!"

Grimlock's last word turned into a roar as Jetfire complied… in time for them all to have a front-row seat to the impact of what was left of the government plane.


	18. Chapter 18 Racing

A/N: A very special thank you goes out to Hummergrey again for some wonderful story ideas about everyone's favorite wrench-throwing medic and his past. Thank you for all your support and help in the creation of this story. If you hadn't have written "If an Autobot, do NOT do the following" I wouldn't have this deep love for Ratchet and Prowl, or the basis for this story. Thank you, thank you, thank you! ::much hugs!::

And I thank everyone for their suggestions and ideas. I welcome them and reviews, too! Some ideas were suggested to me way back from the first chapter (Wow! We're on chapter 18 now and the thing keeps growing!), and those ideas are going to figure heavily into the next story arc. I haven't forgotten them, nor the idea of giving mad props where they are due. Keep reading, and you'll see them soon enough! :D

I have introduced a femme in this story named Starflare. So far I believe she is my OC (as in not owned or used by the lovely people that own Transformers), and all my research points to the fact that this name has not been used in canon. I am not egotistical enough to believe that I am the only one that thought of this name for a femme, however that being said, my version of her is very much my OC. I apologize to anyone that has used this name for an OC before. While I have not found evidence of it being used here on this site, I would very much like to state that I am not trying to steal anyone's idea.

Once more I issue my disclaimer: I do not own Transformers or anything associated with them (save my OCs). Those are owned by people with more money, lawyers, and time than I want to think about. Please don't sue.

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They couldn't stop him, and in the end that would be for the best. Any that tried to get in his way—be they mech or human—would quickly find out that the former politician-turned-mech was every ounce the warrior Ironhide was, every ounce the tactician Prowl was, and every ounce the unbreakingly loyal friend that BumbleBee was. His spark nearly burned through its casing, it was running so hot. Alarms raced through his processor, stating how limitations were reached and cooling fans were unable to compensate. He ignored them. The world--indeed the universe, itself--had narrowed down to one single goal. And he would reach it, by Primus. No one was going to stop him this time.

Still, he ran. Still, Grimlock matched him.

Ratchet watched helplessly as the human plane smacked into the fertile farm land. It bounced and landed, bounced and landed again, over and over and over. Each time it spewed metals and parts like an organic animal shed hair. At least, he could only pray that those were metallic parts and bits tumbling from the broken craft. He pushed his sensors to their max range, pumping energon through his systems as fast as he could. Each bump of plane to land took it that much farther from his range, but he took comfort in knowing that the materials he ran past were not of organic composition.

He was not running over pieces of Lydia.

Jetfire roared overhead in eerie silence, the sonic boom of his engines coming minutes later. It cracked overhead like thunder, drowning out the horrific crumpling sound as what remained of the plane as it finally slid to a halt, having spun in random directions with each impact. His sensors picked up the fight that ensued, registered Jetfire's transformation in mid-flight and how he collided with his former friend. They had been scientists together, Jetfire and Starscream, in the ages before the Great War. His spark registered a touch of pity as former friend slammed into former friend, knowing that it cost Jetfire greatly to do this. What it cost Starscream was anyone's guess.

He, himself, had paid that price time and again during the beginning battles of the war. He had personally witnessed sparkbrother turn on sparkbrother, bonded mechs and femmes at each other's throat, those that had been sired attacking those that sparkbirthed them, and vice versa. Myriads upon myriads of horrors, and he, an elected spokesman of his people, helpless to do anything to stop it. Helpless to save his sparkbrother as Megatron tortured him to death all because Ratchet had refused to swear the oath of fealty to him.

Megatron… thought at one time to be one of the greatest co-rulers of their civilization. Megatron, who had ultimately delivered the race to its doom.

He watched in numb horror as Starscream and Jetfire slammed into the earth nearly on top of the remnants of the plane. Grimlock roared at his side and kicked up his speed. The dinobot was surprisingly swift for his massive bulk, and yet every bit as fierce and deadly as the T-Rex he was fashioned after. He wanted to get to Lydia probably as much as Ratchet did, himself. But unlike Ratchet, Grimlock was determined to tear apart Starscream, and quite possibly Jetfire as well, for daring to come so close to landing on top of his friend. Ratchet had optics only for getting to Lydia, then getting to any survivors of the crash, and then getting to the payback.

And there _would _be severe payback. Like there had been for Starflare.

The memories rose, unbidden, spurned on by the emotions that plagued his spark. He could remember Starflare in precise detail, her lilting vocals and the way her mouth plates were always upturned slightly, as if she were forever amused by life and the universe. Her coloring had been considered exotic, a rare fading of deep dark red at the top of her head plates sleekly down to fiery orange at her feet. Yellow optics instead of blue graced her features; yellow that glittered up close instead of glowed. Staring into her optics had been like watching tiny solar flares dance across the perfect sphere of a sun.

All these things had been considered flaws, however. Her clan had been preeminent among the Seekers, her lineage tracing itself back to the first flyer to ever be sparked. A femme of her line should have been mated to a Prime or at the very least a co-ruler or head of another Seeker clan. But Starflare had held another flaw in the processors of her family. She had an unnatural curiosity about damn near everything, and professed to never wanting a mate. Instead, she had wanted to become a medic, her clan's drive to be the best manifesting itself fiercely in her spark.

She would become the greatest medic known to Cybertron. It was her destiny, or so she believed. Until her family and his had arranged for their mating.

It had been a logical choice, all things considered. He was a promising politician from a middle-known family. She was the unwanted femme of a high ranking clan. The mating would elevate his family to great heights, not mention throw a huge amount of support behind his efforts (for as much as her clan thought Starflare was flawed, she was still part of them, and thusly still loved… as much as a royal clan could love. Supporting the efforts of her mate was the least they could do). She would be quietly mated in a private ceremony, and then properly shoved into the shadows of life. It was a win-win as far as everyone was concerned.

Everyone, save for Starflare, herself, and her intended.

To him she was beautiful and bold, strong and daring and highly, highly intelligent. Good, solid things to want in a mate. But she was as distant as she was beautiful, seemingly incapable of true emotional attachment. Her processors were always fixed on the future and never the moment, and that had truly saddened him. While he would abide by his family's wishes and be a good mate to her, would be compassionate and understanding and supportive, he would never truly love her.

Starflare had sensed this from the moment they had met, and instead of saddening her, it was a relief. She had smiled then and led him to a quiet place. They had discussed their coming mating in a clinical yet comfortable way. But there had been no warmth to it, no joy singing in either's spark at the thought of becoming one together. They would become friends eventually, and he would secretly support her decision to go into the medical field, but they would never truly love.

They would never truly mate, either. For the war broke out just breems before their ceremony, and she had been one of the first femmes destroyed in the massacre at Iacon. He had found her body swinging from the height of one of the medical buildings, too late to do anything. The Decepticons captured him there, cradling his fallen Starflare, wishing they had had more time to at least try to love one another. Barricade and Starscream had torn her body from his arms, the latter using her shell for target practice as a form of torture against Ratchet.

And while he had never truly mourned her as a mate, Ratchet had mourned her in place of every mech that had ever lost the opportunity to love. He mourned her as the embodiment of the death of dreams.

In Starflare's memory, he had taken up the medical profession after his escape. Joining the Autobots almost as fast as he could; no one could stop him or change his mind. Secretly, in a specially welded compartment within his spark casing, he carried a tiny fragment of her favorite wrench. The one she had had the habit of throwing at his head to get his attention, her ever-smirking lip-plates curved even more out of caring. Never out of love, but out of a form of respect. For a femme that had never known love from her clan, it was the only way she knew how to express the emotion.

The wrench-throwing was a trait he had picked up, again, out of mourning for so much death. Out of a need to express the caring he held for his often frustratingly stubborn and moronic comrades when words failed him.

Out of a memory of what could have been…

He felt that piece of wrench keenly against the beat of his spark, and his processors belabored the notion that he might have to carry a piece of Lydia's jewelry right next to that fragment if he didn't stop fretting and get his aft in gear.

No, they _couldn't _stop him before, and they _wouldn't_ stop him this time. Not now, and not ever.

~*~*~*~*~*~

She wasn't certain how long she lay there watching the world spin in hellacious circles. Even after the plane had touched down, had gouged its mile long trench in what had once been a nice field of corn stalks, she refused to move. Refused to believe it was all over. The landing had wrenched her free of Joshua, had tossed all the survivors about like rag dolls in a dryer. The screams at first had been deafening, but the silence afterwards had hurt so much more. She didn't want to get up, to open her eyes and see who else was still alive.

Because she knew that not all of them had made it. Some had survived the horror of Starscream's initial attack only to die from the force of the impact. Somehow that fact mattered little to Lydia._ All_ that truly mattered was that they were dead because of the Seeker. It didn't matter to her if that death occurred during the attack or fifty years from now due to a complication from the impact.

Dead was dead. And she held him personally responsible.

The thought warmed her body slightly, stirring her blood back into motion. She still didn't want to move, though, didn't want to see. There were enough horrors floating around inside her fucked up brain due to this war. Did she really have to be the first to see the broken bodies of those that had had her back in the committee? Would she add their faces to the host of others that danced merrily through her nightmares? All dead now, and all dead because they believed in her and Ratchet and Wheeljack's idea. Dead, because they wanted to be part of something bigger than themselves.

She had to push that thought away, recognizing the beginnings of another bout of survivor's guilt. She was almost used to this now, used to surviving when she should have died. What she could never come to grips with was feeling guilty that she had.

Thankfully, she didn't have to be the first to open her eyes. Soft moans began to filter through her ears, to make it past the horrible ringing that let her know at least on eardrum was blown. She could only hope that it was repairable. Otherwise she got to add being deaf in one ear to her list of impressive war wounds. Again, something else she would hold Starscream responsible for.

"Is everyone okay?" Dr. Song-Ming Tam called out into the darkness, her voice shaky but thankfully strong. "Someone? Answer, please?"

"I'm here," she croaked out, and immediately wished that she hadn't. All that screaming to be heard above the wind had taken it's toll on her vocal cords. She sounded like she had gargled battery acid. "In one piece, I think."

"Oh, thank god, Lydia," the relief sang in Song-Ming's voice, adding another layer of that guilt Lydia was trying hard to fend off. "We thought… when we saw you we thought you weren't going to make it. You and Captain Eddard looked… And when that monster started to scream your name, we were certain he would kill us all to get to you."

She shoved herself to a sitting position, batting aside the sudden tears in her eyes and cradling her useless arm. "He just might," she groaned. "Do we know if he's gone yet?"

Lydia watched as the other woman froze, fear turning her striking features into something ugly. "W-we just assumed that he would leave," Song-Ming stuttered out. "Do you think he would linger here? Surely the authorities are on their way here now. He won't risk a confrontation with—"

Lydia shook her head and fought not to sigh in resignation. They didn't understand. None of them understood, treating the Cybertronians almost like dangerous wild animals. For some reason it just couldn't register in most human minds that something non-human could have the same dark qualities of sentient life: like revenge, pettiness, lack of compassion or caring... That something non-human would not simply destroy just to destroy. The evidence was all around them, and still they couldn't see it. She pulled herself to her feet, grunting from the pain. Everything in her body seemed to hurt.

"Starscream doesn't fear human reprisals," she gritted out tiredly. "He's going to stay here until he gets what he came for. We just have to stay alive until the Autobots find us."

Joshua groaned, shoving aside the arm of someone else in order to sit up straight. "Wasn't his aim to wreck this plane?" he asked, rubbing at the huge swollen bruise blossoming on his chin. "And, for the record, thank you for saving my life. I owe you one. But if you ever hit me like that again, I swear that'll change real fast. What the fuck did you hit me with, anyway?"

Despite the situation, the fact that death probably waited outside that door in the form of a Decepticon Seeker, she spared him a sharp grin. "My fist."

"My ass," he groused. "Unless you have steel for bones, you didn't hit me with your fist."

Lydia looked down at her immobile arm, staring at the tears in the flesh that had stopped bleeding finally, trying not to notice the silvery material that shown through at the elbow. Apparently when she'd thrown Josh into the hold ahead of her, the implants in her elbow and shoulder had fractured. She shifted her grip on her arm to cover the implant. Some things she really didn't need anyone to know right at the moment. If they so much as suspected her of being anything other than human, all kinds of hysteria would break out. Human nature had proved such things time and again. One of the darker qualities of sentient life.

The fact that no one was screaming and pointing probably meant that her eye had stopped glowing, too, and that made her sigh in relief. She made a mental note to figure out what had caused the stupid thing to shine in the first place.

Getting out of this mess alive, however, was paramount in her thoughts.

"I don't know if wrecking the plane was his goal," she said, pushing the conversation back on track—and away from her abilities. "If it were that simple, he would have blown us out of the sky. He's not known for his acts of bravery."

Song-Ming started to tremble, eyes fixating on the hatch that lead to the outside, and Lydia tensed, waiting for the before-mentioned hysteria to start. Fear had a wonderful way of ruining even the slightest moments of peace, and the last thing she needed was to start knocking survivors out to keep them from running around in horror-inspired circles. Abject terror was always known for making even the smartest of people into harmful blathering idiots. She glanced over at Josh, her eyes pleading with him. _Do something!_ She begged silently. _Help me keep them focused on surviving!_

Joshua sighed this time, the sound turning into a muffled cry of pain as his leg collapsed under his weight. "Shit," he hissed.

That wasn't exactly what she had in mind, but she'd take anything at the moment to keep everyone organized and not freaking the hell out. "Probably broken. Dr. Tam, do you know anything about first aid?" Lydia jerked her head towards Josh and then at her own useless arm. "I can't treat him right now."

Song-Ming nodded, the action a bit jerky as she fought down her fear. But fight it down she did, at least enough to cross over to Joshua. Lydia turned away as the woman found a bit of sharp metal and used it to slice up the leg of Josh's paints. She made herself useful, too, moving through the cramped hold, trying to rouse those that were left. There were so few of them, she thought, swallowing a sob that threatened to pull free of her throat. She couldn't afford to show that kind of weakness now, and not just for the sake of her own pride. She and Josh were probably the only two soldiers left in this nightmare, and their training would most likely be the only thing that would get the survivors out of this alive.

Survivors, she thought with such sorrow. Out of the forty people on the flight, there were less than fifteen in the hold. Subtracting herself, Song-Ming, and Joshua, that left a possible thirteen survivors.

It only took her five minutes of searching to cut that number down to eight.

Lydia stared into the lifeless eyes of Janet Evengii, and the sob broke loose. The young woman with the light blond hair and soft brown eyes, the one that had laughed and loved shoes and sarcasm as much as Lydia, herself, lay amidst the rubble like a broken doll. The left side of her face was caked with blood, matting that soft hair, her body bent at an odd and impossible angle. That smiling face was now a mask of terror, frozen in death as if to tell the tale of what she experienced just before her end.

Lydia's hand shook violently as she closed Janet's eyes for the last time, knowing that her face would stand center-stage in the morbid spectacle that would be her nightmares for months to come.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Starscream and Jetfire hit the ground hard enough to shake the earth. And still fists flew and weapons discharged as each fought to gain the upper hand in the situation. They rolled across the farmland like bullies in a schoolyard, curses and accusations in Cybertronian flowing like water between them. Chunks of rich, black earth flew here and there, sprinkled with shards of metal as a fist or weapon found its mark. Grimlock was the first of the Autobots to make it to the fight, followed quickly by Skids and Mudflap. The twins transformed in mid-leap, not really caring who they landed on.

It was easier to ask forgiveness, after all, than wait for permission to enter the brawl. And landing on Jetfire would injure Starscream, anyway. That much weight would have to crush the slag out of at least some part of the Seeker. Besides, it was more fun this way.

Skids played the audio track of the Tarzan bellow as he jumped. Mudflap screamed "GERONIMO!"

Ironhide made a mental note to berate both twins once they got back to Diego Garcia safely. Leaping into a combat like that was a great way to get one's self slagged. They knew better. With a disgusted sound, he turned his mighty cannons towards the outside perimeter. He did so for two reasons: The first being that if both twins and Jetfire could not handle Starscream alone, then they were a sorry group of mechs that deserved the aft kickcing they got. The second was that Epps was right. Starscream never stuck his neck out without a backup plan.

And by backup plan, he meant a horde of Decepitcon lackeys.

He watched as the humans finally reached their location, his sensors strained to their limits. "Something's wrong," he rumbled.

That made Lennox come up short. He turned and stared at the giant mech. "What?" he asked, slowing turning in a circle, riffle at the ready. He'd learned long ago not to question the weapon's expert or his hunches. "You sense something?"

"No, and that's the problem," Ironhide growled, cannons whirling dangerously. "I don't sense anything."

"Any _mech_ or any _thing_?"

He looked down at Will, optics narrowing. "Nothing at all. Not even you. Fall back, now!"

~*~*~*~*~*~

Ratbat watched with unbridled glee as the Autobot weapon's expert turned about in confusion. The jamming program had been his own creation, though originally created to be used on his fellow Decepticons. Starscream's subsequent involvement in and ruining of his financial plans had taught the minicon much. The jammer was something to ensure utter privacy while he and Soundwave made their own bid for power.

And as he watched Ironhide prance about from his hiding place among the wreckage, he cackled. So it _was _true after all. You _could_ teach an old mech new tricks. Like dancing… and acting the utter fool. Though, in his not so humble opinion, anyone bearing the Autobot insignia was forever branded a total fool. Acting like what he was, was in essence, logical.

Satisfied that his little gimmick would keep the idiots off his aft, he turned back to the matter at hand. There had to be a way to lure the humans out of the cargo hold. The shard of the All-Spark was there, he could almost sense it in his own spark. His human pawns had done well to place it inside the plane before takeoff, ensuring its delivery into Decepitcon hands. His only miscalculation was the design and shape of the hold, itself. The metal was too dense for his blasters to cut through alone.

No, the humans had to open it from inside. The trick was making them do this of their own volition.


	19. Chapter 19 Battle

A/N: I find that I must apologize for all the cliff-hangers in this story. It's sometimes hard to write action sequences without a cliff-hanger-like ending to each portion. So many different points of view and so little time to write them! So I leave this in the hands of the reviewers. If you would like me to complete the entire action scene after this chapter, then I will. It will mean a longer time between updates, however. As I have said before, I only have so much time that I can devote to writing. I wish I could do this full time. You have no idea how much I wish I could wake up in the morning, sit at my computer, and just write. Alas, my life is not that blessed.

And I noticed that I have made another tiny mistake in this story ::hides behind Optimus and begs for forgiveness:: Ratbat is not a minicon. I misread that information. He is a predacon. Many thanks to LadyJavert for catching that error! Much love to you! ::hugs!:: I will attempt to go back and change that bit so that the story has a better flow. Until then, please bear with my mistakes. I love Transformers with a passion. I just wish I had access to all the information out there about them. It's a goal of mine to collect it now :D

As ever, I don't own Transfomers, yada yada yada. Ya'll know the disclaimer by now. ;)

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_And Ratchet, god, I should have told you that I—_

Her voice, those words, felt like lead inside his spark. Lead that seemed to be falling forever inside his spark chamber, striking crucial components and eating through critical wiring. Rendering him near helpless with an emotion he had rarely if ever experienced. His memory core pulled for all it was worth, sorting through his life experiences in a desperate bid to find something similar to this moment, something that could give a clue as to how to repair damage that had no physical source.

Ratchet reached what was left of the plane at a dead run, skidding to a halt on the soupy soil under his feet. The fluids were analyzed and ignored almost before he registered the routine activating in his processors. Fuels for the airplane, water and fertilizer combinations from the farmer who owned the fields, chemical and human wastes from the toilet facilities, coolant and oil from the engines, soft drinks and alcohol from the beverages stored within the hold. None of it was blood.

Most importantly, and what gave him a fleeting sense of hope, was that smiple fact: human blood was absent from the concoction that moistened the ground around him.

His optics told him what his spark refused to believe—that no organic could have survived the onslaught that destroyed the sky craft, nevertheless the actual crash landing. Decepticonenergy waft up from all over the place, sinking into his armor and saturating his sensors until his lip-plates curled in revulsion and he fought the impulse to start physically wiping at his shell. Just anything to remove the taint from his being.

Anything to remove this image from his memory core.

Anything to cancel this aching, tearing emotion emanating from his chest.

_And Ratchet, god, I should have told you that I—_

His cooling systems, already stressed to the maximum, somehow found the energy to kick things up a notch and went into overdrive. Error messages scrolled across his vision, stating that if he didn't get a handle on this fear, this utterly unfamiliar sensation rapidly overtaking his systems, he would fall into stasis lock on the spot. Vents dilated to the full, intake values sucking in air as fast as possible to try and balance out the heating of his circuits. He had to calm himself. He had to focus on the task at hand. For some reason his spark wouldn't follow that order like the rest of his systems. The thing pulsed so rapidly against his chest plating, racing with the terrible thoughts that crashed through his processors.

Thoughts like he was too late, yet again, to save her. He had been too late to save Starflare. And now he was too late to save Lydia.

Had he been human, he would have diagnosed himself with the first stages of hyperventilation and an impending panic attack. But he wasn't human. The being that he cherished _was_. And though he had resigned himself to the fact that she would live out her lifespan and vanish forever long before he would like, he wasn't prepared to loose her this soon. He wasn't prepared for the circuit-freezing fear that overrode processors and subroutines alike as he surveyed the wreckage of the plane.

He had never cared for a being like this before, and that was the simple and uncomplicated truth. He loved his fellow Autobots as fellow brothers and warriors, understanding that it was their choice and their nature to go forth into battle. He knew that each and every time they deployed along with their human supporters, it was possibly the last time he would ever see them again this side of the Matrix. It was enough to almost cripple a spark, that knowledge. And still it had nothing on the sensations wracking his frame.

_And Ratchet, god, I should have told you that I—_

"LYDIA!" he bellowed, sensors reaching for life signs, for the beat of a heart he knew almost as intimately as the pulse of his own spark. "LYDIA!"

~*~*~*~*~*~

"_LYDIA!"_

The bellowing of her name rocked the cargo hold, the sound of it reverberating until the survivors clapped hands over ears and fell to their knees. Screams and whimpers echoed in the wake of it, humans pushed to the limit of what their sanity could hold. It hadn't taken long for the brief hope of survival to flicker and fade in their hearts. No one could budge the door, could muster up enough strength to open the warped metal. Starscream's clumsy attempts to claim her as his... whatever it was he had in mind for her... had effectively sealed them inside. The door and the areas around it were almost welded into one smooth piece of steel, the sheer strength of the Decepticon pounding the plates together until it was nearly impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

And Song-Ming had delivered the final blow to their fragile dream of escape by stating that there were no other exits from the hold. It was designed to contain and protect, not to allow easy access. So now they were on the ground, with an obviously pissed off Decepticon near by, and still they were nowhere near out of danger. They simply had no place to go to escape it. Somehow that was worse.

The bellowing subsided and Lydia staggered on her feet, nearly falling. Her head swam, an all-too familiar pain starting to creep back behind her right eye. And this time she actually prayed that the migraine would kill her. Her inner reserves of strength were fading, and it was only a matter of time before her wounds caught up with her. Then she would pass out, and all her metal impanted bits would be out in the open for examination. She could almost hear the exclamations of fear, the accusations that she wasn't human, but a Cybertronian spy. Stupid, idiotic conclusions to jump to, she knew, but given the stress of the situation, she wouldn't put it past them. It was always easier to jump to the first conclusion, regardless of how illogical or improbable it was.

And yet through the pain, part of her knew she should recognize that voice calling for her. She couldn't be certain. It sounded like it was filtered through a long hallway packed full of cotton. Or maybe it just sounded that fuzzy because it felt as if her head was in a fog. A tiny voice in the back of her head whispered for her to hang on. Just a little longer. Just one more breath after the last and soon it would be over. The Autobots were coming for her. She just had to give them time.

Lydia tried to ignore the bellowing voice, tried to focus on the events around her. Her heart, her soul, wouldn't give up, however. She needed to remember that voice, to recognize it.

And for the life of her, she couldn't. It was most likely Starscream, at any rate. Wasn't he the last one that had screamed for her? She thought back, frowning. No, that didn't feel right. Did Starscream call her by name? Did he even know her at all? She couldn't remember, and that started to frighten her. Once, she had had a mind made for memorization, for categorizing facts and numbers like nobody's business. Now, she couldn't recall a conversation held no less than an hour ago.

Lydia shook her head, fighting off the pain, the waves of nausea, and to concentrate on the faces around her. A man Lydia knew vaguely as a senator from North Dakota sat on the floor with his hands over his ears, rocking back and forth and muttering the word 'no' over and over under his breath. Two men huddled together in a dark corner, fiddling with an electronic device of some kind. One had a tiny toolkit open, the other shining the light from his key chain at the device in question, a look of frantic hope on his aged face. Three others clung together in an opposite corner, praying and crying all at the same time.

A woman she only knew in passing went fetal, curled around a man whose lifeless hands would never again hold her like she wanted. Lydia had the brief flash of insight to know that the man was a senator, too, and that the woman was the man's congressional aide. Their 'alleged' affair had been splashed across the tabloids for months. Well, it would come to light soon, she mused darkly. It would be all over the news once the media found their bodies cuddled together like that.

"What the fuck did you do to him?" Josh gritted out between clenched teeth, trying to remain conscious as Song-Ming tied a piece of metal to his leg, forming a splint of sorts.

Lydia shook herself from her thoughts, realizing for the first time that she was shivering, that a fine mist of sweat coated her body. A touch of her forehead and cheek told her that her skin was cool. No wonder her mind was wandering to senatorial affairs and that her brain felt like it was wrapped in a fleece blanket. She was either going into shock from her injuries, or she had lost more blood than she had realized. "I shot his eye out," she said absently.

Song-Ming jerked back, staring at her with wide eyes. "You WHAT?" she nearly shrieked.

"Turnabout is fair play. He took my left eye two years ago. I was just returning the favor," Lydia shrugged with her good shoulder. "It was that or let him kill Josh."

Josh snickered, the sound turning into a gasp of pain as Song-Ming tied the last strap of the make-shift splint. "Looks like he's going to do it anyway."

She rolled her eyes. "You're welcome," she shot back dryly through chattering teeth, leaning against the far wall and sliding down to her rump. "Remind me of your gratitude next time, and I'll just let him toss your ass."

That brought him up short, and Josh shoved Song-Ming aside. "Tend to the others," he said sharply, command rich in his voice. His eyes locked onto her form, taking in her injuries as if seeing them for the first time. "Phoenix. Shit, girl, you look bad. And I'm not being cute. You're hurt worse than you let on."

She wanted to say 'I'll live' or 'I've been through worse' and found both were wildly inappropriate. It was very likely that they weren't going to make it through the next hour, not all of them. "It's only a matter of time," she murmured.

Josh hobbled over to her side. His eyes were tender, concerned, his voice soft. "Until what, honey?"

Her eyes almost blazed with anger at him, righteous indignation exploding inside her numbing body. How dare he be so tender? How dare he be the best human being she had ever known until someone mentioned the Cybertronians? How dare he become so ugly in those moments, so unbelievably thick-headed and hurtful? And how dare _she_ find comfort when his arm slid over her shoulder, her head tucking into that hollow between his neck and shoulder as if that wonderful part of him was sculpted just for her use.

She was going to die in his arms, and as comforting as that could have been, she knew she wanted to be held in different _hands_ when her final moments came. She wanted to hear _his_voice rumble all around her, fill her heart with light as she closed her eyes for the last time. And she sure as hell wanted that moment to be decades and decades in the future! Thanks to Starscream, that one simple wish looked very much like it would never happen. He was going to finish the job he had started two years earlier, and there was nothing she could do about it.

"Until he claws through the hold," she said softly, tears starting to slide free again. "We don't have anything to defend ourselves with. I lost the gun when I pulled us into here. God, I'm such an idiot. I should have told him."

"Told who what?" Josh asked.

_That I loved him. That I found more happiness when fighting with him than I had found when smiling in other's company. _But she wouldn't bring herself to say that out loud. As much as Joshua could be a right bastard, she would never be so cruel in their final hours of life to confess that she loved another. And that that other was an Autobot and not human. She would let Joshua Eddard live his final moments in his illusion that they had a happily ever after in their future. It was as close to a thank you as she could get for all the years that he had her back when they had been a team. She owed him this small kindness at least.

"Doesn't matter now," she muttered, staring blankly at the wall across from them, at the place were the battle sounds were the loudest.

A wordless roar slammed into the hold this time, shaking the box-like structure. The resonance awoke something inside her, fighting the cage of depression and shock that encircled her mind. She should know that roar, and had the faintest impression of her briefcase in conjunction to that prehistoric-sounding howl. She narrowed her eyes, fighting against the pain until she nearly blacked out. She knew that growl, just as she knew the voice that had bellowed her name.

"Dammit!" the man with the toolkit hissed, tossing the device he had so carefully fussed over to the ground. "It's useless. It's all useless. I can't fix it. We're all going to die here!"

In his anger he tossed the toolkit, the instruments winging through the air like silvery missiles. Tiny screw drivers, bolts, screws, and a wrench sailed across the hold, clanging against the wall… clanging against her memory. Resignation turned into recognition in a heartbeat, adrenaline racing through her body like a fire. Depression burned to ash in the wake of that heat, hope flooding her heart anew.

"_LYDIA!"_

Her eyes widened, and she was on her feet before Josh could stop her. "RATCHET!" she screamed with all her breath. "RATCHET! I'M HERE! RIGHT HERE! SOMEONE HELP ME POUND ON THIS WALL! HE'S HERE! THE AUTOBOTS ARE _HERE!_"

~*~*~*~*~*~

Ratbat sub-vocalized a hiss, flinching and trying to close down his audio receptors as the huge medic bellowed some human name. What was it about these humans that made his kind want to collect them like pets? First Starscream's fanatic desire to possess this human woman, and now Ratchet, the one Autobot he had high hopes of turning to the Decepticon cause, seemed to havecontracted the same idiotic obsession with these flesh creatures. He wondered if it was a disease native to this planet, this desire to keep organics like toys.

Rumor had it that even Megatron had his eye on a human called Sam Witwicky. It was pathetic.

The little Decepticon wedged himself deeper into his hiding place, praying that the medic wouldn't step on him, or that that egotistical Starscream wouldn't lead his pursuers back in this direction. So far the Seeker was doing his job well, keeping the four Auto-glitches away from the wreckage. And so far Ironhide and the humans were searching for an outward attack that would never come. The use of Starscream in this plan had been brilliant, knowing the Autobots would never expect the Seeker to do anything on his own. The confusion abounded from his adversaries, thick in the air like a sweet and favorite scent. Soundwave would be pleased with the outcome, indeed.

Technically, with Ratbat present, Starscream wasn't doing this mission alone. However, their enemies expected more… flash… when the Seeker was involved. Ratbat chortled in his amusement. What was it the humans said about assumptions? That's what one gets when they assume. He was going to have to adopt that phrase before this battle was over. It pleased him.

But while was vastly amused at the current success of their plan, what he hadn't anticipated was the medic or his obsession with one of the humans locked in the hold. It was an unexpected complication that might not be something he could overcome. Ratchet wasn't the strongest fighter, but he wasn't someone to flat out ignore, either. Many a Decepticon had fallen to the medic's probes and lasers, paying the heavy price for underestimating his skills. Ratbat wasn't going to be one of them.

And time was ticking away rather quickly, his processors told him. He didn't have much left before either the Autobots would capture Starscream or the Seeker would abandon him in favor of his own wretched life. Even with his desire for the shard of the All-Spark and his new want for this human femme, Starscream wouldn't surrender his spark. Ratbat couldn't blame him for that. There was no profit in one's own death. The death of another, however, was an entirely different story.

Or the almost-death of another, that is.

The plan raced through his processors in an astrosecond, and he quietly congratulated himself on the deviousness of it. He timed his exit just right, waiting for either Grimlock or Ratchet to bellow like an idiot. And then he slipped out from hiding, just another piece of metal trembling at the decibels of those sounds. He circled around the back of the wreckage until his target came into view.

His weapon made barely a whisper as he targeted and fired a single shot at the human known as William Lennox.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Maybe it was something a simple as senses heightened from millennia of battle, and maybe it was what the humans would call a 'sixth sense' when it came to a friend. Had Major Will Lennox been an Autobot, he would have claimed that the brother-bond of their sparks had alerted him to the incoming danger. Whatever the reason, however, Ironhide just knew the attack was coming without the aid of his sensors. And he knew it was targeted primarily on the human standing near him.

"DOWN!" Ironhide bellowed, spinning around faster than his mass should have allowed and returning fire.

No one questioned the weapon's expert, and seven marines face-planted the earth almost before the mech had finished that one word. Heat followed by intense pain flared across William's back, enough that he nearly blacked out. He stifled a cry, hands digging into the soil in an effort to brace against the pain. The answering subsonic boom of Ironhide's main cannon was a tiny comfort against the agony racing across his skin. Instead of letting up, the pain only appeared to intensify.

"LENNOX!" Epps cried next, crawling on his belly as fast as he could to his commander. "Don't move. Shit, his gear's melting into his back. Cut it off, now! Medic! We need a medic!"

"Slagging Decepitcon glitch," Ironhide snarled. "Skids! Mudflap! New target. Let Jetfire and Grimlock finish off that Seeker."

The twins peeled off the fight on command, and Ironhide let out a small prayer of thanks that at least the slaggin' twins knew when to take an order. If only he could get them to take their status as warriors as seriously as they took their constant bickering, then they'd be a fighting force to make even Megatron stand up and take notice. Perhaps in a millennia or two, they would grow out of their adolescent phase--if they lived that long. Primus alone knew that Prowl was one incident away from offlining them both and making it look like an accident. Several other mechs would most likely volunteer to help the security officer in that task.

"You sure 'bout that target, bossman?" Skids asked. "Cus I ain't readin' jack for nothin' in the area."

"Copy that," Mudflap answered. "Ain't nothin' but nothin' here."

"And what does that tell you?" Ironhide snapped. "Think about it!"

"Man, I can't even sense yo ulgy mug, bro," Skids returned, voice thoughtful. "That would be a relief normally."

"Bite my shiny metal aft," Mudflap tossed out.

"Sorry, I gotta taste for 'Con today. Yo aft'll have to wait 'til tomorrow."

Dirt flew up as the twins kicked into high speed, heading towards the coordinates Ironhide provided. The elder mech stood guard over the humans in his care, cannons whirling with his frustration. Without sensors, there was no way to discover the incoming attack until it was almost too late. He wasn't arrogant enough to believe that skill had saved Lennox. Luck played a heavy role in that incident, primarily in the fact that Ironhide had happened to be glancing near the direction of the attack. Otherwise, he would have been presenting the body of another comrade to his femme, and his spark would have dimmed that much more at the sound of her wailing sorrow.

His optics flared at that thought. Never again, he quietly vowed. Never again would he have to witness that kind of pain if he had anything to say about it.

"Epps," he barked.

"Yo," Epps answered.

"We're being jammed. You got anything in your bag of tricks to figure out the direction of whatever's causing this?"

Epps raised both eyebrows, lips pressing together as a low whistling sound left them. "Not sure," he answered honestly. "If it's jamming you and the rest, there's precious little that I can do about it. But I'll giveit a shot. Give me a few."

"Not like I have anything else to do at the moment," Ironhide grumbled in response, inching for something to blast at, for something to end this unbearable blind sensation.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It wasn't fear that blinded him, he realized after only a minute or two of searching the wreckage. Something or someone was interfering with his scanning ability, essentially jamming his frequencies. _Some thing _was disrupting the most basic of scans, something that was not human in origin, and certainly wasn't natural to this planet. Combat protocols overrode his search-and-rescue routines, and it was with a growl of pure frustrated annoyance that he allowed his rifle to subspace into one hand. The weapon was going to make searching for survivors that much harder.

But it would keep him alive if an attack came. He couldn't save Lydia if he was a pile of slag.

Abandoning his long-range sensory programs, Ratchet relied on his immediate senses. Sight and scent mostly. He didn't need a complicated algorithm to sniff the air or register what his optics told him. He could detect the faintest trace of her presence in the remains of the cockpit. Her blood, the barest traces of it lingered in the co-pilot's area. Along with a scent that frightened him all the more: burnt flesh. Or more to the point, her burnt flesh. A silent prayer formed in his processors, a thought more akin to begging than praying if truth was to be told. He could not bear this again.

He didn't know if he could handle her death in this fashion. Starflare's had been bad enough, had stolen the polish and tenderness from his personality, had peeled back the layers to expose the gruffness underneath the shine. What would Lydia take from him with her passing? What would be left of his personality then?

"_Ratchet!"_

Ratchet spun around, his receptors picking up the faintest trace of sound. For a moment, he thought he had heard Lydia's voice, heard her calling his name. Not that he was able to detect much, and that thought only served to fuel his growing anger. He pushed through the static noise that filled his senses due to the jamming, reaching for that one faint voice.

"_Ratchet! I'm here! Right here!" _

The words were faint, muffled, but the direction was clear. He crossed the distance from nose of the plane to the hold in two easy strides. "Lydia!"

Banging noises from beneath the twisted metal answered his cry.

"Lydia, if you can hear me, back away! I have to cut through the metal to reach you! Get as far away as you can!"

One hand transformed into a powerful magnet, the other into a cutting torch.

~*~*~*~*~*~

This was going to be too easy.

He would have preferred the mindless Grimlock to the twins. However Ratbat recognized that he was not in a position to be picky at the moment. He would deal with whatever came his way, and enjoy laughing at their expense later on. If he could manage to take one of them out in the process of stealing the shard, so much the better. Maybe even line them up to take a blast from Ironhide or Ratchet. Now _there _would be a cause for celebration if ever there was one.

Another Autobot flaw he absolutely detested was their tendency to mourn a fallen comrade. Forcing one to kill another, even by accident on their part, was like killing two at the same time. The offender never seemed to recover from the action. Sickeningly pathetic, if you asked him. If one Decepticon managed to accidentally kill another, then the offlined 'Con obviously wasn't worthy of being among their ranks. The killer earned the right to claim the deceased share of the spoils, enriching and raising his position all that much more. Which was why he never understood the reasoning behind Autobots and their so-called compassion.

Compassion was just another term for weakness.

Grimlock would have been easier to manipulate, his actions and reactions more predictable than the twins. Their combat capabilities were nothing to sneeze at, though, and Ratbat had to step twice as fast to stay on top of his game. The point was, after all, to get inside the human cargo hold, not end up as a trophy. As such, his laser only grazed the top of a head plate, gaining their attention.

And then he raised one five-appendage claw, lowering the two most extreme digits on either side until only the middle one was left extended. If his research was correct, the 'kissy' sound he made in their direction, coupled with the hand gesture, should have been enough to enrage the two beyond reason. Their love of human culture was a well-known weakness to all the Decepticons. It always surprised Ratbat that no one ever used it against them. Until now.

True to form, the twins transformed into bi-pedal mode, gaping at the 'Con as if he had called them a glitch-faced pit-spawn.

"Oh no he didn't!" Skids sputtered. "He so did _NOT_just give _ME_ the bird!"

"No bird gives my bro the… uh… bird… infronta me!" Mudflap hollered.

Rifles subspaced into hands. And with a laugh from the little Decepticon, the chase was on.

It was going to be too easy.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"_Lydia, if you can hear me, back away! I have to cut through the metal to reach you! Get as far away as you can!"_

Joshua's hand landed on her good shoulder almost hard enough to make it a bad shoulder like the other. "What the hell are you doing!"

She tried to pull away from his grip, found the effort made her lightheaded, made the pain behind her eye grow worse. "Saving our lives," she snapped, forcing herself to stay on her feet on her own power. "What does it look like?"

"How do you even know it's one of them? One of the ones that—"

"That what?" she snarled, sucking up the pain again and fueling her anger with it. She was sick of it, finally and utterly sick of the way he could run hot or cold at the blink of an eye. It was like dealing with a schizophrenic. "Can you even bring yourself to say it? Say it! Say 'one of the good guys,' Josh. I want to hear the words from your lips."

He spun her around, gripping both arms, ignoring the tiny shriek of pain that escaped her. "There are no good guys among them," he shouted, shaking her so hard her teeth snapped together. "Why can't you see that? What kind of hold do they have over you? They're just using you to get to whatever dark plan they have hatching in their vile minds."

"Captain Eddard, stop!" Song-Ming begged, running over and trying to put herself between them. "Stop! Can't you see you're hurting her?"

"If it will smack some sense into her head, then so be it," he snarled back. "Don't let those things get in here. They'll kill us all."

"Dammit, Josh, let go of me!" Heat began to radiate from behind her, becoming uncomfortable. She didn't need to look behind her to know that the wall was turning an angry cherry red. Soon sparks would start to fly as the metal gave way to his torches. "Ratchet is cutting his way through right now. If we don't move, we're going to get cooked!"

"Not until you see reason!"

"Oh, to hell with this!" Song-Ming muttered… and planted a rather unladylike kick into his wounded leg.

Josh went down like a stone, unfortunately taking Lydia down with him. He landed on top of her, and more than a little shriek left her this time. It was a full on yowl of suffering, the pain so intense it stole her breath. She felt the flesh of her arm tear again, blood flowing anew. Josh grunted as his weight pinned her to the ruined deck, the grunt turning into something filled with fear…

… as an entire section of the wall vanished and blinding sunlight poured through the opening. Two blue optics peered through that hole in the wall, assessing damage with lightning speed. Until those optics fell on Joshua Eddard and the woman pinned beneath him, bleeding anew. Then those optics narrowed dangerously.

"There had better be a damn good explanation for this," he rumbled darkly, reaching a huge metal hand into the hold.


	20. Chapter 20 Capture

A/N: When I started this story, I had only planned about a six chapter arc. I had no idea that it would ever grow to this size, or that anyone would even like it. I am floored by the fact that two hundred+ reviews have been offered for this expanding work. No, I'm not floored, I'm completely blown away and so very thankful that people are enjoying this story. I love writing it, and the fact that people love reading it is a joy beyond measure. Thank you all who read and review. It truly makes my day. :D

Again, some people aren't going to be happy with this chapter, and again I apologize. However, I PROMISE this is the last chapter of the battle story arc. I promise that things are not as dark as they seem and that bright moments are ahead for Ratchet and Lydia and all our favorites. I have a plan for this story, and I promise that if you bear with me, you'll love it in the end. At least I hope you will. ::looks hopeful as she peers out from behind Optimus Prime and Ultra Magnus:: Please don't lynch the author. ::Looks up at Optimus Prime and Ultra Magnus:: Please don't step on the author, either. I promise things will get better! ::whimpers::

My disclaimer remains the same: I do not own Transformers or anything connected to them. I only own my OCs and am not making any money from this in any way. Please don't sue.

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His timing had been perfect.

Ratbat chortled to himself once again, his amused sound predictably misinterpreted as an insult to the fight the twins were dishing out. They thought he was laughing at them, and Ratbat wasn't about to correct them. Their misguided attempts to understand his actions only served to further his purpose. Let the imbeciles think he was laughing at them. Let that fuel their anger and blind their processors to what was about to happen. It was only moments before the cacophony of chaos would begin, mere astroseconds away from the symphony of completion. The angrier they were, the more spectacular the finale.

He could hardly contain his glee.

The nimble little Decepticon dodged another round of cannon fire from the moronic twins behind him, and his _true_target came into view. Ratchet was bent down on hands and knees, reaching inside the hold for Primus only knew what. The Autobot certainly wasn't reaching for the piece of the All-Spark, of that he was positive. His jamming was almost fool-proof, knocking out sensors and programs alike until every bot present had to rely on optics alone. Even he, himself, was rendered sensor-blind by the device.

It was a small annoyance to deal with in the wake of what he was going to gain. Sometimes one had to schedule a loss in order to procure a larger gain.

He dove as hard and fast as he could at the prone medic, whipping through a hair-pin turn around the aft wreckage of the plane. The little 'Con flew high in an arc, clawed mandibles scratching hideous lines across the back of the medic as he did. The effect was as expected, and Ratchet twisted in surprise, his optics focusing on bat-like creature—

—and away from the incoming twins.

There was no way to avoid the collision. Every processor in Mudflap's being screamed that the impact was going to happen. It was a simple and unwavering fact. There was no escaping it short of the ground opening up and swallowing them whole, or Ratchet suddenly spouting wings and jetpacks. Part of him wouldn't put it past the crafty medic to have something like that held in reserve. It was _Ratchet_ after all.

Still, the Autobot dug his feet into the soil, turning away from his friend as much as he could, looking almost like a baseball player sliding towards home plate. Only this time his hands weren't outstretched towards the base. Instead they were splayed out behind him, plowing up field and crop and debris alike from the airplane in his effort to stop. Behind him, Skids did much the same.

It did nothing to stop the impact.

"LOOK OUT!"

Ratchet had enough time to turn towards that bellowed sound, his optics widening. His processors spat out all kinds of alternatives to the coming collision, and each one was discarded almost as fast as it appeared. There wasn't enough time for him to brace himself for impact, not being caught flat-footed as the humans would say. All he could do was pull his hand from the cargo hold rapidly, praying that it cleared the tiny metal box before the twins struck him. If not, the already fragile and injured humans were in for another wild ride. One that the survivors may not, themselves, survive again.

Mudflap collided first with the taller yellow and green mech, the impact knocking the elder hard enough to dislodge him from his perch. Skids's added collision sent all three of them somersaulting backward, slamming into the wreckage and knocking them back a good twenty to thirty feet. Ratchet cursed, trying as hard as he could to stop his momentum or at least reverse it. Because a horrible thought had occurred to him, one that turned his blue optics to red in a flash.

The cargo hold was now open, cut and torn wide by his own tools. The humans within were now exposed and undefended… and the Decepticons were closer to Lydia than he was.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"RATCHET!"

Ironhide roared the name, watching helplessly as the twins smacked hard into the mech. All three flew back in a ball of tangled limbs and Cybertronian curses. It would have been absolutely hysterical under other circumstances, for it wasn't every day that Ratchet was knocked head over aft across a field of any kind. Had this been a normal day at the base, he would have glued his optics to the situation, recording every delicious moment, and laughed until he felt his vocal processor pop and fizzle at the retaliation the medic would certainly inflict for the insult.

But this wasn't an average day. And he had to promise himself that he would indeed witness Ratchet's retribution when they got out of this mess.

Because they would survive it, by Primus, even if he had to weld everyone back together himself.

"Epps!" he shouted, taking aim at the little bat-like bot that rose in a high, tight arc in the air. "Get rid of that jamming! I can't fight when I don't know the distances. Too much power could fry everyone in the area. I need that jamming gone!"

"We can shoot, sir!" answered a hard-faced bald marine Ironhide's processors recognized as Sergeant Daniel Longworth. The man turned to the remaining troops. "Everyone, take down the bat. That's an order, all fire on the bat now!"

The air around them exploded with the sound of automatic weapons fire, the sky around the bat-like shape shattering with ricochets like golden sparks. To their credit, the bat lost its velocity and control, wavering in the air before falling into what had once been the aft of the plane with a loud and painful sounding _crunch_. Cheers broke out around Ironhide, and the mech growled in frustration.

"He's not down," The weapon's expert snarled. "Ratbat hasn't lived as long as he has by being easy to knock out of a fight."

"You call that easy?" a marine screamed exasperatedly.

"Stow the attitude," Longworth snapped, eye staring hard through the scope on his rifle. "It's not moving, but I'm not about to argue with Ironhide. We proceed at all caution. Two man teams in intervals. We surround and finish the job, got it? Pair up and move out."

"Epps!" Ironhide called again, watching as the humans scattered according to orders.

"On it!" Robert shouted back, slapping closed the toolkit and slipping it into one of his millions of pockets. He held the augmented binoculars up to his eyes, the lenses flipping through different shades of color as he ran through the light spectrum. "Figured that since you all had access to your optics, this jammer was designed to at least leave the visible spectrum active."

"So I've noticed," Ironhide put in dryly, the frustration so deep in his voice that it almost drown out the words. "You know where it is?"

"Working on it," the man answered. "Reconfigured these binoc's to the most basic levels, using lenses instead of electronic scans. I'm assuming that the Decepticons would have built the jammer out of their own tech and metals, right?"

"Correct," he answered. Some of the anger died in Ironhide's vocals, the mech catching on to what Epps had in mind. "So we look for anything not native to this planet."

"Right," Epps answered… and stopped. The target blossomed before his eyes, a dark patch of black against the spectrum of color projected through the lenses in his hands. "There! Five clicks north by north east. That mound of rock."

"On it," Ironhide primed his cannons with an evil smile, letting loose a blast that carved a furrow in the earth almost as massive as the crash site of the plane.

And just like that, the static noise inside his processors vanished. Targeting systems ceased their pinwheeling, battle programming rushing to life with a vengeance. The world opened up to him again, sensors reading both the battle with Starscream and the impending fight between the humans and Ratbat. It took him nanoseconds to decide where he was needed the most, and what was the best option for ending this battle with the least amount of causalities.

Ironhide grinned a grin that would have put the Grim Reaper to shame… and made his choice.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The tiny hold of what was once part of the aircraft named Freedom Flight of the United States Air Force, the twin of Air Force One, nearly rocked up onto its side. Ratchet's fingers had barely cleared the hole, the tips still within the circular cut when the twins smacked into him, hard. People screamed. It was hard to imagine that any one of them had vocal cords enough left to still scream after all that had happened. But scream they did, finding some depthless well of terror inside their souls and giving vent to that unholy sound.

Lydia was no exception. Though her scream wasn't out of fear for her own life, but that of the mech that had tried to save her.

"Ratchet!" she wailed, shoving at Joshua's arms and scrambling to her feet, desperate to get to the outside. _Please, don't let it be over like this, _she prayed. _Don't let me see him again just to loose him. Don't let him die trying to save me. Please, not like this. Don't take him and not me, too. Please, no. No no no no no no no nonononooo…_

"No, Lydia!" Josh snarled, grabbing her leg and pulling her off her feet. "Don't! We don't know what's out there. If it's strong enough to take down that thing, then it's no help to us!"

"Get off me!" she screeched, the sobs ripping from her throat as she flipped around on her back, trying to crab-walk backward away from him. "Don't you dare touch me again, you son of a bitch. Don't you dare ever touch me again! So help me if he dies and you stop me from helping, I swear I'll make you pay."

The look in her bi-colored eyes froze him, the outrage and repulsion in that stare pinning him on the spot. Confusion danced in those grey-white eyes, sorrow mingling a grey thread of color through them. And then they darkened, realization spiraling within his gaze until the grey eclipsed the white, turning them dark and smoky with rage.

"So he's the one, huh?" he jerked his head towards the hole in the wall. "He's the one you 'should have told' something to before this mess. I can't believe it. I simply can't believe that you would share yourself with that… that _alien._"

"Go fuck yourself, Joshua Eddard," she hissed, tendrils of pain worming through the anger those words. Years of wasted longing for a man she hadn't ever really known, a mourning for the memory of a man that only existed in her imagination taking the sharpness from her voice. Leaving it cold and flat and utterly devoid of forgiveness. "Take your prejudiced, unforgiving ass and keep it far, far away from me."

"You're screwing an alien!" he nearly exploded, lip curling in revulsion.

A hush fell over the hold, making it as silent as a tomb, the sounds of the battle outside somehow muted in the wake of his words. Lydia shook her head slowly, shaking her ankle once, watching his hands jerk away from her as if she were something dirty, something contaminated with a hot, burning and deadly disease. She waited for him to do something stupid like wipe his hands on his ruined shirt or stare at them as if they were as dirty for touching her as he was making her out to be. If he did, she wasn't certain what she would do. Something in her would snap, she knew that much at least.

And then it was anyone's guess whether she would run for the outside, or actually attempt to beat her former Captain to death. Both were in the realm of possibility. And both would end with her dying in the attempt. She knew damn well that one more smack upside the head, or one more bleeding wound and she was done for.

To his credit, Joshua only continued to stare at her, as did the rest of the survivors of the doomed Freedom flight.

"That's none of your business," she said softly, voice carrying over the hush like a thunderclap all the same.

"It is when you're sleeping with me, too," he threw back.

"Guess I'm not anymore, now am I?"

He flinched back, the words like a physical slap. "So you admit it?"

"I'm admitting nothing. What goes on between Ratchet and I is our business. So butt out."

"No."

She stared at him incredulously. "Not your decision," Lydia turned away, painfully climbing to her feet. Her ankle—the one he had twisted in trying to prevent her exit—throbbed and burned. Another ache to add to the list of injuries pounding on her nervous system like a drummer on crack. She limped a few steps towards the door. "Now please get the hell out of my life."

"You are my life, Phoenix," Joshua called, the softness of his tone chilled by the cold steel in it. "Just because you are fucking this machine doesn't change what I feel for you. When we get out of this, we'll get you some help. We'll get through this rough patch together."

She ignored him, pushing down the creeping dread that filled her at his words. More than anything she wanted to be home in Diego Garcia. She wanted to be surrounded by Autobots and military fences. She wanted to be safe on her island with its remote desert sands, with its absolutely, bordering-on-paranoia controlled access points. Though she was a capable warrior in her own right, every woman—from the young girl to the most seasoned of professional fighters—instinctively feared those words uttered in that tone.

It was the sound of obsession.

Lydia pressed forward towards the exit, and then dove to the side on reflex as the tiny black Decepticon flew through the opening and into the hold.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was fate, as the humans would say. The chances that Starscream's human would have survived the crash had been slim to none, or so his processors told him. By his calculations, only two or three of the humans should have been online at all, nevertheless one as badly damaged as this femme. And yet there he was, face to face with the human he now knew as Lydia. It was hard to not know her name, what with all the males and that frustrating mech screaming her name with every chance they had, apparently.

And the chances of him running into her as the first human in the hold were even less than that. It was either a sign of great fortune, or a sign of great disaster.

"What is it about you, human, that drives males and mechs crazy?" he spared the time to ask, voice dripping with thinly veiled disgust. "Is there something in your makeup that infects humans and Cybertronians alike with this obsessive desire?"

It was clear on the femme's face that she had no idea what he was talking about. Perhaps her intelligence was grossly overestimated. Perhaps she was ignorant, incapable of understanding. It was something he would contemplate later, when he had her contained for study and had the shard of the All-Spark in hand. If he took her alive, he would have a costly prize indeed to dangle over Starscream's head.

Profit, profit and more profit. Words that he truly loved. A sign of great fortune, indeed.

A flash of light was her only warning, a white so blinding that it nearly knocked her unconscious. She tried to dive away, but her injured ankle refused to cooperate. The blast took her across the back, the concussive force knocking the breath from her body, the energy of it sparking across her nervous system. She collapsed to the floor without a sound, body convulsing lightly as the electricity of his stunbolt short-circuited her muscle control.

"Lydia!" another female human screamed, this one shorter, slimmer, and probably just as stupid as this Lydia. Ratbat sized her up in moments, discarding her as beyond useless as either a threat or as part of his plans.

Satisfied, Ratbat turned the weapon on the other survivors, intending to capture them all and let Starscream sort through them at his leisure. If he had interest in this one flesh creature, perhaps he would have interest in them all. If anything, the sorting process would keep the Seeker out of his wires and would allow him to concentrate on the next phase of his plan. Again, it was a win-win situation for him.

Until the metal bar slammed into his head hard enough to knock him into the nearest wall. Programs fizzled inside his processors, realigning moments later. Red optics blazed all the brighter, rage pumping through his circuits. Not even the idiotic twins had struck him that hard, and the insult of being caught unaware by an organic embarrassed him more than damaged him. He started to push himself upwards when the bar came down on him again with impressive strength. And again. And again. And again.

"You. Won't. Touch. Her. Again!" Josh roared, working the broke piece of pipe like a baseball bat. The force of his swings punctuated each word, tiny bits of metal flying free with each impact. "Never. Again. She. Is. Not. YOURS! Do. You. Understand!"

"Josh!" the other femme screamed. "Josh, she's not breathing. Lydia's not breathing!"

_Josh_, Ratbat memorized, throwing that name and the image of the male into his processors and relishing the immediate thoughts of pain he would inflict on this human. Perhaps he had been infected by this disease after all. For he wanted nothing more in that moment than to have this Josh pinned down to a berth and at his mercy. Or lack of mercy, he corrected. What he had in mind was, in all probability, the furthest thing from mercy that existed.

The pathetic human turned at the cry of the femme, and that was all the opening that Ratbat needed.

"She has a pace-maker," Josh cried, eyes wide. "The blast must have shorted it—"

The stunbolt took him in the back, knocking him flat without a sound. The humans remaining, six in total, screamed and wailed with their insipid fear, scrambling away from him like the prey they were. He paid them no mind, not caring that they spewed from the opening in the hold, still screaming as they ran. His ultimate goal sat not five feet away, secured in its little box labeled "medical supplies." Only it hadn't been opened by the humans, what with the industrial lock securing it closed. Scrapings on the lock told him that they had tried to open it.

He chuckled, slicing through the steel like it was dust.

Only three humans remained in the hold when he turned around, the chip of the All-Spark in hand. It barely registered in his thought processes that his sensors were alive with the power of the All-Spark, that his precious jamming was no longer registering as active. It all mattered little now that the prize was in his clawed hands. And those two fleshlings Josh and Lydia were both unconscious and ready for collection. A sign of great, great fortune indeed!

The only other organic in the hold was the femme that had cried out their names. He tilted his head to the side, reading the fear that spiked through her systems as his optics bored into her. "What is your designation, human?" he asked.

It took the femme three times to stutter it out, and he watched her curl around Lydia and sob. "Song-Ming," she said at last.

He smiled, gliding over to her, the chip of All-Spark glowing faintly as he approached. He felt the power washing over him, healing his injuries and fueling him with strength. It was almost heady, this wash of power. It made him want to use the chip for himself, and the idea refused to leave his processors. Little arcs of blue-white lightning skipped along his frame, bouncing into walls and the human bodies.

"Song-Ming," he echoed. "You will come with me now. I need a shield against the Autobots. They will not fire if I have a human hostage, and I do not care about your life at this time. Now, help me bind Josh and Lydia together for transport. Their lives are of use to me. Serve well, and maybe your life will, too. If you survive."

He reached for her with his free claw, the All-Spark lightning splashing down his arm and into Song-Ming… and into Lydia where the other femme had touched her. Lydia's eyes snapped open, the lightning arcing between the blue and green orbs, her mouth working in a soundless scream. Ratbat watched in morbid fascination, the readings of energy in that frail human body registering as off the chart for her kind. But it wasn't the spike of energy in her that alarmed him. It was when her arm--the one she had cradled as if useless--flashed out and locked onto his claw. Impossibly strong fingers dug in until they left grooves in his frame. Blue-white lightning arced over her limb, the metallic portions under her skin nearly glowing with the power.

He screamed. Lydia screamed. Song-Ming screamed, the latter's courage finally giving out and she ran for her life from the hold.

And Ratbat did the only thing he could. In his panic, he stabbed the shard of the All-Spark into Lydia's chest, taking joy as the black heart's blood fountained past her lips. The one blue eye sizzled with All-Spark energy, glowing until he thought it would explode out of her head. The pupil was lost to the whirlwind of lightning. He feared the worst, that the human had somehow animated herself. He was not in a position to fight her and escape at the same time. Not with the pressing energies of Autobots beginning to surround him. No doubt those thrice-damned twins and that medic were up and moving in his direction.

But the human simply collapsed, a toy with its batteries removed. She continued to quake and convulse, though he ignored that. All his research proved that humans could not restore themselves once their heart was punctured. She was dead. He had his prize. And he had the name of the human he wanted to destroy the most. He could find the male again. That wouldn't be hard. He had seen enough.

Shaking off her limp grasp, he leaped through the hole—

And into the waiting jaws of one very pissed off Cybertronian-shaped Tyrannosaurs Rex.


	21. Chapter 21 Spark

A/N: Thank you to everyone that has reviewed this story and stuck with me through all the major cliffhangers of that last story arc. Whew! It about killed me to write that. Just when I thought the danger was over, some random plot thread waved at me in the wind and I had to run around with the nail gun and pin it in place. Not to mention I had to come up with a way to get Ratbat into the hold, get Grimlock the loving revenge he so desperately deserves, and deal with Ironhide at the same time. That's harder than one might think, considering all the firepower that our fave Topkick has at his disposal. Running him into a combat--unless it is against Megatron--is a real fast way to end it. Great for getting our heroes out of trouble, but doesn't make for a really original story. ::Looks up at the looming mech in question and swallows hard when the cannons prime:: Sorry, Ironhide. But trust me, you will get much love in the coming chapters.

This next chapter starts out dark, but I once again ask all you readers to bear with me. It IS going to get better. It is NOT going to remain so dark. I promised happy moments and much Lydia/Ratchet goodness. I haven't forgotten, and it should be here in the next chapter. I just have to get Ratchet to cooperate. He's almost as pushy--if not more--than Ironhide at times. I hope the oddness of this chapter, and the revelations presented are done well enough and will not leave too much confusion. My beta seemed to think that it came out fine, so I'm going to have to trust her. ::crosses fingers::

A special thank you goes out to laureas for pointing out the use of the evil word that means horrible pain in the head. I have stopped referring to them as M- and have started calling them cluster headaches. I suffer mild M- headaches, but not to the point that the word triggers the process. From someone who knows that pain rather intimately, I apologize and have removed the word from the rest of the story. I'll see about editing out the rest. ::much hugs!::

As always, I do not own Transformers, etc... No sue. This is only for fun!

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She was dead. Of that much she was reasonably certain.

It was hard not to come to that conclusion, not with the fading memory of her last moments drawing breath. She remembered clearly the startling presence of a tiny black-armored Decepticon—and by tiny, she meant just a foot taller than she, herself, was. Blood red optics had focused on her with a fascination, and the words it spoke were now lost to her memory. All she could remember was that her traitorous cybernetic eye had tried to glow again, and the cluster headache behind her one human eye had exploded into a full blown attempt at turning her brain into liquid.

Or at least it had felt that way. Until she realized that the pain had burned away in a flash, and in its wake she was left with the most amazing sense of clarity she had ever known. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as she stared transfixed at the Cybertronian, the moment stretching on and on like a rubber band expanding without end. She knew him, felt him in some piece of her terrified soul. Part of her was drawn towards the Decepticon, recognized him like her heart would recognize her brother or her nephew. She couldn't explain it more than that.

It was almost as if he were part of her genetic makeup, almost as if he were a part of flesh.

She couldn't breathe, her lungs freezing even as her body ached to step forward and touch the Decepticon. It couldn't possibly be true, could it? She was human! HUMAN! She wasn't repulsed by the idea of feeling kinship with a Cybertronian at all—far from it, actually—but she sure as hell had qualms about being one with a Decepticon! With a sworn enemy! How in the known galaxy could she feel any kind of… of… _attachment_… with that creature? He had stared at her in much the same way, startled and fixated all at the same time. And then he had spoken to her, though it was a sound she hadn't heard with her ears. It was a sound she heard with her mind.

Lydia knew his name, his true name, though it had no translation into any human language. The designation he had chosen for himself was Ratbat. And Ratbat wasn't speaking to her directly. What he was doing was more like a reflex, she realized, like thinking and speaking at the same time. She knew he did not need to speak aloud to communicate with his own kind. Spending enough time around the Autobots had taught her that much at least. Watching new arrivals trying to acclimate to the humans around them on the base had been like listening to half a conversation. It was a simple impulse for them to use their internal comms instead of verbal expressions.

She knew then that Optimus and the others must have had to write very specific routines in their programming to stop that automatic activation of the comm. and to use spoken words. For a bot like Ratbat, there was no need for such an alteration to his programming. He had no use for sharing his thoughts with humans. So when he spoke aloud, he automatically activated his comm.. Since humans could not pick up on those signals, why bother to shield them?

But she could hear them now when in his presence, feel them like cold, razor sharp winds inside her mind. It scared her beyond words. But it scared her even more to realize that while she could hear Ratbat's comm. as clear as verbal words, she had never _ever_before been able to hear Arcee's or Ratchet's… or any other Autobots.

Horror had filled her last moments, revelation after revelation crashing down on her newly heightened sense of awareness. And mixed into that horror was the self-depreciating realization that all of this should have been as plain as day to her. The signs had been right before her all this time; she had simply refused to notice them. The cluster headaches, the flashes of temper at seemingly innocent moments… All reactions born of pain and hatred. And ALL were reactions to the presence of the Cybertronians.

These things should have crossed her mind long before she had ever set foot on the Diego Garcia military base. And should have been painfully obvious long before she had accepted the surgeries that had made her into a kind of hybrid monster.

Because that was what she was: a hybrid fucking _monster_. And not because of her implants, per se, but because of where they had come _from. _

How she hadn't put this together before nearly knocked her off her wobbly feet. Her parts were reverse-engineered from NBE-1, a.k.a Megatron. So it stood to reason that every time she came near an Autobot, the pieces of her would try to shy away from the energy they gave off. And with no place to go inside her body, they simply _hurt_.

Had she had the time to puzzle this out further, she would have realized that the ache was caused from clashing energy. Laying on Ratchet's hood out in the desert had been an exercise in self-punishment. The cluster headache behind her eye beating on her nerves with fists made of nausea until she had wanted to roll over and hurl. Only his soothing voice, the focus of their conversation, had kept her from doing just that.

And it also stood to reason that if her parts rejected the energon signatures given off by the Autobots, then it made perfect sense that her parts would have sucked up Decepticon energy like a starving man at a buffet. And the pain she had felt when meeting with Starscream, the pain that had made all others look like a slight wince in comparison, was nothing more than growing pains. Nothing more than her flesh trying to adjust to the influx of energy being drawn in by her alien implants. No wonder her eye had glowed and her arm had found strength enough to warp the steel of the chairs or to knock Joshua on his ass. She was lucky she hadn't accidentally killed the man in the process.

And, if she followed through with the same path of logic, it was little wonder that her heart had found the power to beat so fast, to force adrenaline to flow during that encounter on the plane enough to get her and Joshua to safety. Any normal pace-maker would have fizzled out way before then.

But hers wasn't a normal pace-maker. And with a buffet like Starscream to feed from, it wasn't a stretch of the imagination to believe her heart had surpassed normal human limitations. It wouldn't have surprised her to learn that her body had taken more damage than she now displayed, and that her parts had siphoned off energy from the Seeker to heal.

The more she thought about it, the more she noticed other little oddities. Like how in Ratchet's presence, the pain had not been so great. And whatever he had done to her in the desert when she sat in his palm—she wasn't so dense as to not have felt the light brush of power against her skin—had not only erased the headache completely, it had left her feeling refreshed enough to hammer out the rest of their plan that night.

It was something she had wanted to tell him, something she had wanted to thank him for a million times over.

It was something she would never be able to tell him. Like how hard she had fallen for him.

_Ratchet, I wish you could hear me. I should have told you that I loved you. I should have told you about the implants. I should have told you so many things, but I was afraid. Stupid now, I know. It's so funny how, in our manic dash through the obstacle course of life, how a tiny little pebble can suddenly become a mountain. And instead of facing that mountain, we find it so much easier to run away. _

_I let my fear become a mountain, and I lost what had to be the most precious and dear moments of my life. I'm sorry. I'm so utterly and completely sorry, my love. Even if you didn't feel the same, I should have told you. I can only hope that our time together will serve as a bright point in the darker times in your life. Know, please, please know that with my last breath, I cling to your memory. Please, please know that the last emotion I ever experienced wasn't pain or fear, but bittersweet love. _

_And please, please, if the universe is truly a kind place, know that I wait for you in a place where there are no shadows and no wars…_

Ratbat's stunbolt flew at her with aching slowness, and the rubber band-like effect of stretching time finally snapped. The bolt hit her, and the pain was all-consuming, cold enough to burn and sharp enough to obliterate flesh and bone alike. Lydia felt none of it, let it ghost across the edges of her reality. Her mind turned inward, and true to her word, she thought only of that night in the desert, sitting in his palm. She closed her eyes and fell forward into the blue-blue light of his optics…

~*~*~*~*~*~

"I'll see your forty credits," a familiar voice said, "And raise you another forty."

The sound of coins clattered against a table, followed by the unfamiliar grunts of other individuals. More coins were anteed into the pot, the crisp _swish-wisp_ echo of playing cards folding between fingers followed. Lydia frowned in the darkness, confusion overriding the peace she had felt a moment before. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision. It didn't help much.

Wasn't she dead? Wasn't there supposed to be some all-consuming peace and light, or at the very least a swift fall into a flaming pit?

"The pot now stands at eight-hundred-million credits, give or take a few thousand," an unfamiliar voice rumbled. "Anyone want to fold?"

A chorus of "no way's" and "not on your life's" and the like answered the voice. And then more coins scattered across the table. Lydia turned towards the sound, arms outstretched before her. Her fingertips grazed across smooth warm crumbling stone, as if this area had been bathed in golden sunlight for days. She frowned. If this place had felt the kiss of the sun for a long time, why was it suddenly so damn dark? Why couldn't she see anything?

"It's because you are still trying to use your eyes, Phoenix," that familiar voice called. "You need to look with better vision that that. Eyes don't work in this place."

"Especially if you want to see him again," added another. "Hey! Keep your optics to yourself, Prima. No cheating!"

Lydia spun around, putting her back to the warm stone. She shuffled her feet back and forth, feeling the warm softness of sand against her battered bare toes. "Who are you? Where are you? Where am I?" Fear was starting to worm through the confusion. _I'm dead and this isn't real_, she thought over and over again. _I'm dead, and this can't be real. It can't… It can't…_

"Thought you said she was the smartest person you'd ever met," a male voice rumbled, oddly enough reminding her of Optimus Prime for some reason.

"I said bravest person," a familiar female voice giggled. "You should have seen what she went through on that plane to save us."

"Don't forget the stubborn part," that first familiar male voice said again, the grin evident in his tone. "Once she was in this dogfight over the South China Sea. Man, that was some amazing flying, if I do say so, myself. Made me proud to be in the same unit with her. Anyway, this freighter had blown its engine and was drifting into restricted space. The Chinese were about as happy about it as I am when I slam my fingers in the car door. Which is to say, they weren't. At all. Everyone said we should fall back and leave this carrier undefended and shit, even our Captain. Phoenix over there, well, she refused to give up. Provided enough cover fire to let the tug boats pull the freighter back to our side of the ocean. People would have died without her."

"Oh, you'll so have to tell me more about that," the woman suggested excitedly. "I didn't know her long enough to hear the really good stories."

"Enough!" Lydia screamed, her voice echoing and bouncing back at her, the fear getting the better of her. This wasn't the way she had envisioned her afterlife. She'd expected a field of flowers or something, and tall spires of metal buildings in the distance. A place in between Earth and Cybetron, where she could pass the time gazing at the sky in lazy peace until it was time for her love to join her. "Tell me what is going on, now!"

Everyone fell silent, and she had the impression they were all staring at her. Whoever the hell 'they' were.

"You didn't tell me she had a voice that loud," a deep voice rumbled in what had to be an attempt at a stage whisper. "You sure she wasn't a politician in life?"

"Trust me," that annoyingly familiar male voice stage-whispered back. "Phoenix hated politics as much as I did. Remind me to tell you about the time the two of us filled this Senator's car full of fresh cow manure."

"Why cow manure?" rumble/whispered the other voice.

"Because if we had to wade through the shit he was shoving at us, we thought it was only fair that he had to do the same thing."

Only one other soul on the planet had known about that incident. "Eclipse!" Lydia gasped, eyes widening in the darkness. "Oh god, Eclipse, is that you?"

He laughed, that easy rich and sexy Latino sound she had missed so dearly in the past two years. "Guilty as charged," he called. "So you going to get with the program and join us, or are you going to stand in the corner like a coat rack the whole time? Got a great game going here."

The tears fell, her heart breaking with the memory of the last time they had all played poker together. They had been on a carrier still, all deployed in the Middle East. Eclipse had on this white linen sheik outfit—complete with turban—he had purchased during their last excursion onto land. She and Spiral had made fun of him that night, so much so that they'd lost more hands than they'd won. Eclipse had repaid the favor by using his winnings to purchase a matching outfit for Spiral and a sexy harem girl costume for her.

One lost bet later, and it was Eclipse wearing that harem outfit and she in the sheik costume. It had been one of her most cherished memories.

As if someone had thrown a switch, a spotlight lit up the darkness, illuminating the figure of Eclipse. He smiled that dazzling smile at her, wearing that same sheik costume from years ago. "About time," he laughed. "Knew you would figure it eventually. Some things you need to see with your heart and not your head. Didn't you tell me that once?"

Another light flared to life, this one at the other end of the table. "Only we didn't think it would take this long," Spiral teased, his southern accent exaggerated for her amusement. He was dressed in his flight suit, probably the one he had worn on the day of his death. It was hard for her to imagine him in anything other than his flight suit, he had loved flying that much. "I owe Janet fifty credits now."

Lydia's head whipped to the center of the table, and the light revealed Janet Evengii, looking as cute and prim as the moment she had met her. Her blond hair glowed in the light, her brown eyes as gentle as Lydia remembered. In her hands were playing cards, and before her a pile of poker chips. She gracefully accepted the offered chip from Spiral, adding it to her not-inconsiderable pile.

"Pleasure doing business with you," she winked at Spiral, and turned those eyes on Lydia. "Care to pull up a chair and join us? The lead bet is in Nova's hand at the moment."

In unison, all three turned and stared up and up and up… and the spotlight peeled away the darkness like a curtain. A huge mech sat at the human-sized table, and yet didn't seem out of place. Lydia couldn't describe it. It was as if reality distorted at that end of the table, so that the mech looked as if he belonged there. And yet when she looked back down the table, it was as if the humans fit perfectly. It made no sense. The more she tried to puzzle it out, the more the reality twisted…

And the darkness threatened to swallow them up again.

"Don't!" Janet called, eyes filled with compassion. "Don't try to puzzle it all out, Lydia. Don't try to make it fit with the life you remember. Just enjoy the fact that we are here. Just… for once, let go."

"Perhaps it would help if someone introduced the rest of us," the rumbling female voice offered.

"Good idea," Spiral replied. "Lydia, may I introduce Nova, Prima, and Jazz. Autobots, may I introduce Lieutenant Commander Lydia DeMarco, who we affectionately call Phoenix."

The spotlights that seemed to come from nowhere illuminated the poker table as each introduction was made, until the entire room was awash in a soft glow. The walls were stone, pale and reminiscent of Egyptian ruins if she was guessing right. The floor was soft and supple desert sand. There were no doors to the room, and no end in sight when she looked up. Only the gentle waves of greeting from each announced mech and femme drew her attention back to the game.

"Where am I?" she murmured almost to herself.

"Does it matter, little one?" Prima answered just as softly, a motherly touch to her voice. "Come and sit for a while. You look tired and are among friends."

Slowly, tentatively, Lydia shuffled forward, taking the offered seat between Prima and Jazz. She didn't want to sit at all, but the fear of denying even that request, of being catapulted back into that consuming darkness, had her moving to the indicated char. A pile of chips appeared before her, and five playing cards danced in the air to land in her open hands.

"Bet's forty credits, gorgeous," Jazz put in, winking at her. "We waved the anteed amount for you. It's the one-time new person perk."

She stared at the cards as if they were foreign things, the tears starting to fall all over again. "You're Jazz," she found herself saying. "You died at Mission City. Like Eclipse and Spiral died. And Janet… I closed your eyes when you died. This means… this means I'm dead, too?"

Jazz placed a gentle hand around her shoulders. "I know, baby. We're all dead, but we're not gone. And the Matrix willing, we'll all be together again one day. But you're not dead yet. At least, not completely."

The others nodded sagely, as if this were a solemn fact of existence. And then Eclipse let out a curse in Spanish. And Spiral laughed. The mech called Nova, the one that reminded her so much of Optimus, was grinning widely as he flipped cards the size of her bed towards the waiting players. Like everything in this strange place, the cards floated towards their intended recipients and landed in the appropriate size for each player's hand.

"The odds not to your liking, Eclipse?" Jazz laughed, earning an evil glare from the human. "Going to enjoy spending your hard-earned credits."

"All the cards aren't on the table yet, big man," Eclipse taunted right back. "Lady Fate is a fickle woman. She won't sit on your lap for all eternity."

Jazz smirked, a playful glint in his blue optics. "She loved to ride with me for more than two million of your Earth years, pilot. So you tell me who she likes the most."

Lydia's eyes roved across the table, torn between breaking down into sobs and the lingering hope that she was not yet a permanent part of the game. "What do you mean I'm not dead yet?"

"Life is pouring into you as we speak," Nova said matter-of-factly. "It's up to you if you want to go back to it, or stay here in the game."

"I DO!" she nearly shrieked, almost overturning the table. Again, every eye in the place was on her, and she had to fight not to scream until what was left of her sanity crumbled and blew away like the sand at her feet. "So why am I still _here_? Why are you all acting so calmly?!"

Nova stared at her as if the answer to the question was obvious. "You don't know?"

"No! If I did, I wouldn't be here!"

Spiral smirked, shaking his head as he looked back to his cards. "You'll figure it out eventually."

"Spiral," Prima chided gently, turning her blue optics on Lydia. "What he means to say is that you will realize your reasons for going back. Then you can find the door. But you have to want to go back, and have a reason to continue. The All-Spark and Matrix both do not spin out life lightly or with little regard. Otherwise there would have been so many more of our kind."

This was getting more and more confusing, and Lydia fought not to run her fingers through her hair in exasperation. "What does the Matrix have to do with me? I'm human!"

Nova shook his head this time, casting a skeptical glance at Janet. "You sure about her bravery?"

Janet simply smiled serenely. "Absolutely. I have faith that she'll figure it out. Lydia won't give up."

"What was the last thing you remember?" Prima asked, tossing a handful of chips into the center of the table. "And it's your bet, little one."

She couldn't believe what was happening. Was this hell? Was she doomed to spend the rest of her afterlife in this one room, puzzling out riddles until her mind was mush? Could her mind even turn into mush in this place? So many questions, so many terrifying riddles in her afterlife just as had been during her real life. Viciously she grabbed a handful of chips at random and winged them into the pot, the sounds of the plastic things distorting to the familiar _clang _of metal on metal. Like the clang of Ratchet's wrench against a wall.

Jazz raised his eyebrow plates, his grin nearly splitting his face wide. "Now that's what I'm talking about! That's a rich bet if I do say so myself. This game just got interesting again."

"She can afford to," Prima remarked. "Looks like she's about to leave us."

"How?" Lydia pleaded, on the edge of begging. "The last thing I remember was trying to tell Ratchet how much I loved him."

"_Love_him," Eclipse corrected. "You aren't dead yet, chica. So that word needs to stay present tense, for your sake as much as for his."

Everyone nodded at that, giving a general murmur of approval.

"What were you thinking about before that?" Prima pushed, flicking a glance at her as she accepted another card from Nova.

The frustration won. Lydia buried her face in her hands, pressing her fingers to her eyes in a vain effort to make sense of everything. Aggravation made tears fall down her face again, and quickly on the heels of that emotion came the feeling of shame. Shame and fear at what Prima was asking of her, of the course her thoughts had taken during that frozen moment with Ratbat.

"I'm a monster," she whispered. "That I've got pieces of the enemy in me, and that if I don't cut them out of me, I'll never belong with the Autobots again."

Nova made a _tsk, tsk_sound, disappointment wafting through the air. "You felt kinship with Ratbat, did you not?"

She merely nodded, unable to look up and face them.

"Would it surprise you to know that he and Megatron were sparked from the same source? In essence, I suppose that makes Megatron like Ratbat's great-great-great grand uncle. They are family of a sorts," Jazz said conversationally, accepting more cards and discarding in like method as the game rolled on around them. "I don't know much about it, honestly. Before my time. But the parts in you are from that same energy that sparked them both."

"That same energy also sparked Orion Pax," Prima provided. "Only you know him as Optimus Prime."

Her head snapped up, disbelief wiping any other emotion from her face and chasing away the lingering bits of shame. "Optimus and Megatron? They share a spark source?"

Everyone at the table nodded, again like it was an accepted fact. The sky was blue. The grass was green. Optimus and Megatron shared a spark source. Simple, right?

"Indeed," Nova answered. "Do you think of him as a monster?"

"No," she replied immediately. "Optimus would rather rip out his own spark than ever harm another life. How could you ever think him capable of being so monstrous?"

Jazz laughed so hard his cards nearly fell from his fingers. "Oh, girl, you should hear yourself. You sound like a card-carrying member of that Optimus fan-club on the base. You honestly think that Optimus is as pure as the driven snow, don't you?"

She felt her face flush with embarrassment. "That's not what I meant," she snapped back, trying to recover from that verbal blunder. "He's not perfect, I know that. It's just… I mean… He works so hard to keep from causing any harm that it's just… well, rude… to think of him in any other fashion. He's the last bot I would ever expect to go evil. That's like anathema to his core being."

"So if your parts came from Optimus, for example," Janet offered demurely, nearly shyly. "You wouldn't refer to yourself as a monster?"

Lydia took a deep breath before answering this time, starting to see what they were driving at. "No," she said slowly. "Because I have witnessed him use his energies for protection and freedom. If my parts would draw that kind of energy into me, I wouldn't fear being consumed by it."

Eclipse pursed his lips. "Do you remember what happened to Ratbat when he picked up that shard of the All-Spark?"

She thought back, closing her eyes and pushing through the pain to replay those moments in slow motion in her mind. She saw him pick up the shard, the images blurry due to her own quasi-aware state at the time. But what she glimpsed was shocking. "He looks power drunk," she said in surprise, opening her eyes. "The shard was giving off power and he was almost high from it. He was leaking lightning like a sieve. And if all of you nod again at the same time like some kind of collective brain trust, I swear I'm going to kick all your asses. Stop it. It's unnerving."

They all smiled in unison instead. She wasn't sure if that was an improvement.

"Given that," Spiral drawled, dragging her attention back to the topic. "Do you think the All-Spark energy was evil, or was the act he committed the source of malevolence?"

Lydia thought about that. "No. Because the presence and actions of the Autobots state that it's not the power but the application of it."

They all started to nod, caught themselves, and then took turns nodding. It gave her the impression of bobbing buoys in a lake. More cards were handed out. More chips were thrown into the pot. She absently threw again, and again only her chips slammed into the pot with that resounding metallic clang.

"So why can't you apply that to yourself?" Nova was asking.

"Because I'm human," Lydia sighed in frustration. "Look, I see what you are driving at. And if I had a spark, I would totally agree with you. But I don't have what it takes—physically—to be tuned into the All-Spark or the Matrix."

Jazz looked down at her, his smile so gentle it almost brought fresh tears to her eyes. "You sure about that?"

He pointed at her chest, at the point where Ratbat had slammed the shard of the All-Spark into her heart. White light glowed beneath her ruined blouse, and her eyes widened. "The implant! Oh, god, is it alive now?"

"Not in the sense that you and I were alive," Janet replied, those eyes suddenly serious. "Think of it like a carrying case, a life support system for more than just you now."

"I'm carrying a sparkling?" The thought floored her, implications and possibilities spinning out in her brain, and not all of them good.

"Possibly," Nova shrugged. "It all depends on what you choose to do with the spark. Put it in a sparkling frame, and I suppose you could have one, yes."

Her hands hovered over her chest, unsure if she should touch it, or if it needed protection. There was so much she didn't know about the life within her! It wasn't fair that she was dead, that this life wasn't going to see any use at all. What a joy it would have been to present the spark to Ratchet, to let him choose to use it to benefit his race. A human carrying a Cybertronian spark… It defied all thought and emotion.

"Does this mean I'm tied to the Matrix?" she asked mutely.

"No," Prima answered automatically. "That post has been reserved for Sam Witwicky. I highly suggest you seek out that human and have a conversation with him when you get back. He might be able to answer more of your questions. For you have far more than you realize, little one."

Her head swam, feeling as if she were going into information overload. Sparks and Sparklings, death and life and a poker game of all things. How did they all fit together? _Did_ they all fit together? And Egypt? Why was this taking place in Egypt? "Then how…" she began.

"Read 'em and weep," Spiral announced, spreading out his winning hand across the table. "Looks like the game is over and the Southern Gent has cleaned ya'll out."

Cards were thrown down on the table, muttering about cheating and southern gambling and humans in general echoed in the small room. He reached down and scooped an impossibly tall amount of chips over to his side of the table. "That's game, darlin'," he said staring into her eyes. One hand reached for a random chip and flipped it over to her. "Remember what we said, and understand when I say I don't want to see your cute ass back here for another fifty to sixty years."

The chip flipped end over end towards her. She reached out a hand to grasp it, waiting for it to shrink down to human size. It never did. Her eyes widened as the bit of plastic grew and grew and grew as it fell towards her. A blue-white glow surrounded it. She held her breath, hands clasping over the spark in her chest, and did the only thing she could. The only thing that had been suggested to her since she opened her eyes in that room.

Just let go, Janet had said.

She did.


	22. Chapter 22 Fallout

A/N: I can never say it enough. Thank you all so much for the kind reviews, the private messages, and for making this story a favorite. It keeps me going like a personal energon source, and makes it so much fun to write this story. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I read each and every review, and I take each and every piece of advice and suggestion to heart. Some suggestions are going to show up soon that were suggested back during the first couple of chapters. I haven't forgotten you! It's just taking some time to weave them into a story arc. ::much hugs!::

This chapter is kind of a bridge into the next story arc. I hope it doesn't bore anyone to death. It was certainly hard--very very hard--for me to write. Sometimes characters take time to maneuver into the situation that you want them in (especially when they know it's going to be bad ::glares at Bumblebee and Ironhide in particular::). I hope you all enjoy this piece as much as all the others. I would like to give a special shout out to the author of the Transformers Wiki about Theodore Galloway. There is a quote to describe him that I shamelessly stole from that site. I have it as something Sam had said because the quote was just too brilliant to be left out. Please check out the wiki. It was wonderfully done, and I will not claim credit for a line I did not come up with, myself. :)

As ever, I do not own Transformers. If I did, I wouldn't be working the job I have now and wouldn't worry so much about my financial future. Please don't sue!

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There was a hush that covered the Diego Garcia military base, a muted layer of dulled silence that wove through streets and hangars and airfields alike. The hush was almost palpable, weighty, bearing down on the inhabitants like an invisible hand made of dread. It was almost as if the entire base held its collective breath, afraid to let it out. Afraid that any sound at all would disturb the terrible balance between life and death, and that death would seize the moment and take the upper hand.

There were sounds, of course. One could not operate a fully functional and fully staffed military base without sounds. Planes still touched down with the friction squeal of rubber tires hitting runway asphalt. Men ran by in formation for morning drills. Silverware clattered against trays in the mess hall. Trucks and vehicles revved their engines, their headlights and tail lights somehow the brighter for the tepid light of dawn. The ground shook with the slight impact tremors of Autobots moving about their morning tasks, mingling with the quiet conversation of their human allies.

Diego Garcia came to life as normal, operating as smoothly as always. And still, one couldn't help but feel it was all dimmed, draped in an invisible cloak of trepidation.

Sentients walked with care, each footstep placed automatically with quiet. Even those that had only the barest inkling of what was going on followed suit as they went about their daily business, watching what they said and where they stepped. No one wanted to be the center of attention that morning, and certainly no one wanted to be the one that broke this terrible stillness. But those that were in the so-called 'know' understood far too well what was happening, and that a life no one on base ever imagined wanting to love was now the only life that seemed to matter.

Eyes and optics couldn't help but dart towards the main Autobot hangar, searching out not the familiar forms of their Cybertronian Allies, but seeking instead the wing that held the medical facility. Two lives, one as vital to the operation of NEST as oxygen was to the humans, and the other holding special significance to only a few, rested now in the giant hands of Chief Medical Officer Ratchet. Major William Lennox was the name on everyone's lips, the concern that stole smiles from nearly all the soldiers stationed at the base.

The obscured one, the one that mattered to so few, was one Lieutenant Commander Lydia DeMarco, Financial Liaison. And the few that cared so much about her congregated outside the locked doors of the medbay, refusing to leave until an update was given.

Optimus Prime stared in silence at the gathered group of humans and mechs, watching from afar as the worry and fatigue slowly crept up into faces, eyes, and optics. Grimlock lay on the hallway floor, his lethal tail curled around him and up over his nose. A mournful look colored his optics, and every so often the hall was filled with the deafening sound of his sad sighing. He looked so much like the organic animal the humans called 'dogs,' what with the pose and the sad expression on his metallic features. The human called Dr. Song-Ming Tam sat far up on his snout, her arm in a sling, her porcelain face molted with bruises. He didn't need to scan her to know that the bruises ran down the collar of her borrowed white turtleneck sweater and covered most of her body.

She had been extremely lucky to only have those bruises and a few slight bone fractures. Otherwise, she was unharmed.

But her large, dark eyes were sharp, narrowed slightly from the pain of her injuries. She had refused any pain killers, stating that she would not allow anything to dull her wits until she knew Lyida was okay. Until she had the chance to apologize over and over again for leaving her with Ratbat. Song-Ming had started that apology, or so she had said, by taking over the care of Grimlock. Every so often, her one good hand would lower to caress the forlorn Dinobot, offering what comfort she could.

Grimlock had refused to let Dr. Tam out of his sight ever since.

Arcee leaned against the far wall, arms crossed over her chest, one foot braced against the wall. Her optics were more purple than sapphire, and each passing hour the red in them eclipsed the blue that much more. An outward indication of the rage that simmered within her spark. She hadn't moved from that post for days, and he had given up arguing with her about it. The femme had taken Lydia's injuries as a personal affront to her honor, and Optimus had feared that he would have to temporary offline her. Her scream still echoed in his audio receivers from when she had glimpsed Lydia's broken body as Ratchet carried her from Jetfire's hold. It was a sound he had heard time and again during the beginnings of the war that had destroyed their planet. And still it haunted him anew each and every time he heard it.

The femme had appointed herself as Lydia's guardian, should she survive, and no one—no bot and certainly no human—was going to talk her out of it. He could order her away, and he knew deep down that she would follow his lead, but it would kill something inside of her. The Autobots—his loyal soldiers and friends—had had enough of themselves destroyed with the war. He was _not_ going to add to that if he could help it.

Skids and Mudflap sat on the floor opposite Arcee, each flanking the doors to the med bay. Their uncharacteristic silence and drooping shoulders all that needed to be said of their grief. Ironhide had nearly offlined himself the first time he had come to check on Lydia and Will, and had found the twins sitting there like lumpy sentinels. No amount of goading on his part could bring either twin to action. No amount of threats—save for the notion of moving them from their posts—had had any effect on them.

Trying to move them had shown the weapon's expert just how much they paid attention to his lectures on combat. Optimus wasn't sure how long it would take for Ironhide to have full use of his main cannon arm again. And for once Ironhide wasn't complaining about that. He'd taken his lumps, as the humans would say, and acknowledged a new-found respect for the two trouble-makers. Payback would come, of that no one had any doubts, but Ironhide would allow the two their time to hope… and their time to grieve if it came down to that.

Primus alone knew that they would all need that time, if it came down to that.

The only figure that caused him any concern was the human known as Captain Joshua Eddard. His optics narrowed as he observed the human yet again. The man held himself away from the main group, hunched over on his crutches. Bruises decorated his flesh as much as they did Dr. Tam's, save for a huge dark brownish purple one across his jaw. Ratchet had informed the human that the jaw bone was riddled with hairline fractures, and that nothing could be done for them. If he could avoid any further trauma to the chin, he should heal without incident. However, he was going to be in a world of pain until that time.

Joshua had only stared in abject hatred at the mech, silently taking the offered perscriptin slip to be filled at the human medical center.

Optimus frowned darkly, understanding the situation far better than anyone not intimately connected with it. Arcee had relayed the entire conversation to him, though he, himself, had only relayed less than a fraction of it to Major Lennox. He knew well of the love Joshua held for Lydia, and of the feelings that Lydia had for him in return. There was little doubt in his processors that had Lydia not have met Ratchet, the two humans would have had a good life together.

The logical part of him suggested that they _should_ have that good life together, and that he _should_put a stop to this thing between the human and his Chief Medical Officer. No good could come of it, at least not any that he could forsee. She would die before he ever had the chance to share even a portion of his existence with her, and the rest of the Autobots would be left with the task of trying to salvage Ratchet's emotions. And, of course, Prowl had pointed out the obvious problem of the precedent that would set. How long before other human/cybertronian couples would appear? What then? Did they really need that kind of complication with the war raging on as it had?

Logically, Prowl was right. But Optimus wasn't a creature of pure logic. And he would not deny his people the chance for some semblance of happiness, however fleeting. Lennox had pointed out to him once, there was more to life than struggle and the things one sought to win. This was their home now, and humans would forever be a factor in their existence. As he had told Prowl, there was no precedent for what they were building on this planet, no rule or regulation to guide the blending of their species with another. All he could do, as their Prime, was be there to help them when that happiness was lost, and he would guide them to a new day.

For now, he would settle with protecting his people from harm. And Joshua Eddard was quickly placing himself in the category of harm. Especially where Ratchet was concerned.

"Optimus."

He turned, glancing down as Robert Epps walked over to his side. "Yes, Sergeant Epps."

Epps flicked a glance towards the doors to the med bay, and Optimus could all but feel the urge in the human to join the waiting group around it. More than his commanding officer that lay behind those massive iron doors. Will was his friend, his brother-in-arms, and the thought of having to put another friend in the ground was enough to tear him apart. It was known that he carried feelings for Lydia, too, though they ran far shy of deep and meaningful, and more towards the sexual and friendly. They had flirted before, gone out drinking only once (if base gossip was to be believed), but had never progressed to anything more than that. Still, Robert Epps was a good man, one that would never leave a friend in need.

The only thing that kept him from joining the rest was the fact that he was temporary commander of NEST until Will was back on his feet.

As if that thought occurred to Epps as well, he turned back to the Autobot leader. "We have incoming visitors. They all have security clearance to be here."

Optimus frowned all the more. "We do not need surprise inspections or liaison tours this week, Sergeant."

"Don't I know it," the other agreed, a look of mixed resignation and revulsion crossing his face. "However, they won't be turned away. They say this visit is in conjunction with a request for some classified information. Did your team ask for anything in particular?"

"Not that I am aware of," he rumbled, leaning down to offer a hand to the human. Epps climbed onto the offered palm, and Optimus turned to walk with the human towards the communications area. "Any request would have come through you, specifically."

"That's what I thought," Epps replied. "The only request put up for classified information was for Lydia's military records. I don't think the pentagon would send a delegation just to discuss that."

Optimus did not reply. If what Ratchet had found inside Lydia's chest was any indication, the visit could very well be for that reason alone.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It had nearly killed him, the sight of her.

Ratchet stared down at the tiny human-sized bed centered in the middle of a berth made for an Autobot, and for the first time truly marveled at the delicate nature of the species. Though the term 'marveled' was incorrect. He _mourned_that frail genetic code, mourned it with all his spark. Logically, of course, he was aware of the physical limitations of the human race. He knew the ins and outs of their kind probably better than the most self-proclaimed 'expert' of their organic doctors. He had made it a personal mission to understand their biological makeup in case of emergencies on the battlefield. And he had given lectures and created file after file for the newly arrived Cybertronians, detailing the fragile state of their new-found allies.

But that state had never before had it hit home so hard as now. Never before had they seemed so easily broken, like a sculpture made of sand that would blow away in a harsh wind long before he had fully registered its beauty.

There was nothing more he could do for her now, and he knew it. His own danger alerts blared against his processors. He needed to recharge, and needed it badly. His nanites needed time to repair the damage he had taken in the final battle outside the plane. Ratbat had not gone down quietly, and Grimlock sported several jagged tears in his jaw structure from it. Thankfully, the Dinobot was as stubborn as the bat and had refused to drop the Decepticon until he was nearly offlined. Red Alert had had to perform the repairs on the creature before he was tossed in the brig. Ratchet had not only refused to treat the 'Con, but had gone as far as to ignite a welding torch and head strait for the bat's exposed spark chamber. To pit with his doctor's oaths where that Decepticon was concerned.

Ironhide had had to restrain Grimlock. Jetfire had done the same to Ratchet. They needed the little glitch-spawn alive for now.

And, knowing all of this, he could not force his feet to move, could not tear his optics away from her pale and drawn face. Illogical, unwanted thoughts raced through his processors, thoughts that he had seen on the face of mated mechs before. Things like 'what if I move and she dies?' or 'what if I move and she wakes up and I'm not there to tell her everything is going to be fine, and then it isn't?' He'd thrown wrenches at those stubborn aft mechs until they had fled the med bay. But it always took more than three wrench-tosses to move the ones truly bonded to their femmes. And even then, he'd had to call security to help usher the mech in question out the door.

Now he stood, staring down at his loved one, and there was no one to throw a wrench at him. There was no one to usher him out with promises of a coming reunion when his femme was well again.

There was no one to shadow the truth of just how close to death she truly was, to tell him everything was going to be alright.

"I told you loving her would be a mistake," Prowl cut in.

Ratchet's rifle was in his hand before he recognized the motion. Come to think of it, he hadn't realized that the Second-in-Command and Security officer was still in the medbay. Part of him registered the mech entering, delivering some kind of report that Ratchet had only marginally listened to and filed away for review later. All his attention had been focused on the fragile life-form in his care, forcing life into her body any and every way he could. Anything else could find its way to the Pit for all he cared.

"Coming from any other mech, I would take those words as a personal affront," Ratchet said flatly, subspacing his rifle again. His gaze drifted back to Lydia's too-still form, peripheral vision picking up on the monitors, the relatively unchanging motions and information. Coma, the humans called it. Statis lock, he called it. Regardless of the name, Lydia's condition was just as scary, just as spark-troubling.

"You need to recharge, Ratchet. You look unwell," Prowl's optics followed those of the medic, gazing at the unmoving femme. "And, for the record, any other mech would have intended those words to be an insult

"But not you?"

"No," Prowl answered, his gaze softening. "No, I respect you too much for that, Ratchet. I always have, and you know it. My words were meant to comfort, to acknowledge the fact that you took the risk to love her, regardless of the outcome. That kind of courage, in and of itself, is worthy of more than respect. It is worthy of honor."

The words soothed, surprisingly enough. They could not take away the spark-freezing fear, could not uproot his feet from the spot, but they could ease the rough edges from the pain in his chest plates. Having someone understand, even in part, helped him find a sort of focus again. He found his voice hard to come by suddenly, his vocal processor refusing all the jumbled words trying to fly through it at once.

"Do not make me into some kind of hero," he said gruffly into the lingering silence. "I'm not. I'm a foolish old mech whose grown fond of taking equally foolish chances."

Prowl snorted, the sound catching Ratchet off guard. It was a decidedly human sounding gesture, and the last one he would have expected from the stolid security officer. "Be that as it may," Prowl replied, flicking a rather sarcastic glance towards the medic. "Your so-called foolish chances display more hope for our kind than many still hold in their sparks. You still reach for the good, Ratchet, and think of something other than war. I cannot say that much for the rest of our kind, even myself."

He didn't know what to say to that, feeling touched and yet flustered by the sudden praise. His gaze returned to Lydia, his sight tracing over the bruises on her face, the singe marks in her hair. She had lost so much of it, he lamented, remembering that night in desert, watching her flip the long ebony curls over her shoulder in such a careless way. Now it was short, barely an inch above her shoulder in its longest strands. The curl was gone, lost to the harsh medical scrubs he'd used to remove smatterings of energon from her body. Whatever she had done to the Decepticon before he had pulled her from the hold, it had been lethal. His fluids had all but saturated her flesh, and that had complicated her injuries that much more.

Eventually her hair would grow again. Eventually, with enough care, it would shine like before in the muted lights humans so appeared to enjoy in their work space. And, eventually, she would smile at him again…

… if her body accepted the work he'd done to save her.

There was a reason why the sheet was pulled up to her chin. It was the same reason in which he'd activated his most powerful of containment fields around the berth, the one that could block the strongest of scans. The public reason was a fear of infection to her burned and torn tissues, and a lack of knowledge to what spilled energon could do to human flesh. The true reason could have him offlined permanently if others found out what _they'd_done, he and Wheeljack. But much like Prowl had just stated, he had developed this new fondness for taking foolish chances all in the name of hope.

"Your praise is misguided," he said at last, the words barely audible. "My hope comes from her. She taught me to reach for the good again. And, if only for that reason, I'd face a thousand vorns in the Pit to save her. So give your words and your prayers to her. I am merely a medic, and a sorry excuse for a mech without her."

Prowl didn't even blink an optic at his words. Other mechs would have openly gaped at that, at the strength of the curse he'd used. The human equivalent would have been an eternity in Hell. For a mech, even the thought of a nanosecond of time banished to the Pit to die was more than one could tolerate. But, for whatever his reasons, Prowl did not call him out on such words. He did not provoke him, and merely accepted the sentiment behind the statement. He placed a hand on Ratchet's shoulder, again a very human gesture, but one that oddly fit in that moment.

Again, it was a comfort of sorts. It was not a help, not a relief, but a comfort. A very, very welcomed comfort.

"You should know that the Earth governments have sent delegates to the base again," Prowl put in after a moment, letting his hand fall back to his side.

"Not my concern," Ratchet replied, optics starting to darken with his trademark annoyance.

"I think it is your concern," Prowl answered, seemingly unconcerned with the budding temper in the other mech. "I believe it has to do with Lydia."

Ratchet's optics started to fade from blue to red. "They better have a damn good reason why." He said softly, turning what should have been a question into a very dangerous statement.

"I believe they are after what you found in her body," Prowl replied, meeting his optics evenly. "We all know now that she has parts in her that do not belong in a human. Many of us have known this for some time. It is possible that they have come to claim her and the parts installed within her flesh."

The growl that left the medic had Prowl taking an involuntary step backward and subspacing his gun into his hands. He frowned, fighting against the battle protocols that all but sang in his systems. "I'm going to take for granted that that sound of menace was not meant for me," he stated calmly, though the underlying threat in his voice spoke volumes. "I respect you almost as much as I respect our Prime, but that can and will change if you abuse that trust. Regain control of yourself, Ratchet. This kind of violence is not your way, nor will it help your femme."

"She is not my femme," he half-snapped/half-growled, even as his hands rested against the containment field almost protectively. "We are not mated."

"Yet."

"What?"

"Yet," Prowl repeated, his weapon returning to that void between dimensions. "You are not mated yet. When she recovers, I am certain that will change. While I do not agree with it, I will not object to your joining. As I said before, there are too many of us who believe the war will never end. _Myself _included. I will defend any mech or femme that can find some bright core of hope in this dismal place."

Prowl turned on his heel and strode towards the door. "I will run interference for you, my friend," he called over his shoulder. "But understand that she is not a part of our species. There is only so long that Optimus and I can stall them if they want to take her."

Ratchet stared at the retreating mech until the doors to the medbay closed him from view. It took him a moment to process everything Prowl had said and to come to the conclusion that Prowl had given his support to their relationship. More to the point, Prowl had just stated—in his very logical and Prowl-like way—that he was willing to fight to the death to give them a chance at happiness. It was unexpected and left him more than a little shaken.

His optics traveled back to the human hidden behind the containment field. "Wake up, Lydia," he whispered. "Wake up soon, please. One of our kind put you in this mess, and I am afraid that one of your own kind is about to put you in a far worse place."

~*~*~*~*~*~

They were arrayed around him like a shield wall, a combined line of humans and Cybetronians on the runway. It was an impressive show of force, Optimus had to admit, and a testament to the dedication of their joint promises. To defend and protect, to honor and shelter and support. It was the core of their agreement with the earth governments. It was also the ties that bound two very different species together in a common goal. Normally that goal was to eradicate the Decepticon threat.

Today that goal was to protect one of their own.

The government plane came to a halt, the door opening in perfect synchronization with the exterior stairs locking into place. Everyone in that line of defense turned their eyes towards that opening door, each one wearing a mask of stubborn determination. Each member had their own reason for being there, he knew. Wheeljack, Robert Epps, Flareup, Hound, and others stood in that line to protect the rights of their friend, Lydia. Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Brawn, and Hot Rod stood in the line to protect the rights of their own kind to govern themselves. And, perhaps, to protest the human desire to send idiot after idiot into their home under the guise of being a 'liaison.' More than a few were beginning to resent the need for government-appointed babysitters who promoted their own personal agendas over the good of those they were supposed to serve. Government-appointed babysitters like Director Galloway.

Theodore Galloway, former National Security Advisor to President Obama, had nearly turned the tide of the war—in the Decepticon's favor—with his arrogance and outright stupidity. Sam Witwicky had won the unspoken contest for the best way to describe that human when he said "It's a truly rare human that can make the guys at Sector Seven look competent."

He and Prowl, however, stood in that line not only for the same reasons the others stood, but additionally to protect the spark of Ratchet. More to the point, to protect his right to choose a mate for himself, even if they did not agree on his choice. _Freedom is the right of every sentient being_, he had said time and again. To his processors, this was no different. And ass with Arcee, he would not kill a hope of comfort. Neither would Prowl.

The door opened… and the collective sigh of surprise could have been heard yards away. The man that stepped from the plane was of middle age and wore a well-cut but no-nonsense gun-metal grey three piece suit, his blond hair receding slightly at the hairline. It was the countenance of the man that was so striking, an inner fire to him that projected through his average features and captured nearly everyone's attention. Though sunglasses hid his eyes from view, very few standing in that line needed more than a glimpse of his profile to recognize the man.

"Good morning," John Keller stated, striding to the edge of the landing. "I doubt very much that introductions are necessary. Some of you may or may not have heard by now, but Director Galloway has taken a personal leave of absence. In the meantime, President Obama has asked me to step in and fill his role. You all know who I am and most of you are aware of just who my aide and advisers are."

Maggie Madsen and Glen Whitmann did their best to give professional smiles as they stepped out of the plane, though their excitement practically radiated through their eyes. Maggie went so far as to lift a hand and wave slightly towards Ironhide, the mech barely dipping his head in a slight nod of acknowledgement. It was the fourth human to emerge from the plane that had Ironhide's cannons spinning to life and Epps reaching for his gun. Muttered curses in many languages rang out in the morning air.

John Keller raised a hand, the simple gesture commanding everyone to silence. "Yes, I'm sure you are all aware of who Mr. Tom Banachek is. And I can assure you he is about as happy to be here as you are to have him," he smiled, the expression sharp and unfriendly. "However, I can assure you that his presence is not only mandatory, but also very necessary. Now we can stand out here and continue to run off at the mouth and wave weapons, or we can get to the heart of this problem."

Optimus took a step forward, gesturing in almost the same way as Keller. Ironhide and Epps lowered their weapons, though the hum of the former's cannons and the fact that the safety was still off of the latter''s sidearm, let everyone know just what they thought about the new arrivals. And no one had to look around to know that the others in the line were following the lead of their commanders. Weapons were not visible, but they were definitely ready to fire in the blink of an eye.

"I greet you, Director Keller and grant you access to this base," Optimus began. "But I do not welcome you. "

Keller took off his sunglasses. Even standing on the top of the stairs, he had to crane his neck to meet the optics of the Autobot leader. The look in his eyes was one of fatigue and sorrow. "If I were in your position, Optimus, I would say the exact same thing. This isn't going to be an easy conversation for anyone, but I assure you it's with the best of intentions."

"Yeah, I hear the road to hell is often paved with those," Epps put in darkly, crossing over to the steps. "As acting CO of Diego Garcia, I echo Optimus's words. But keep in mind that this offer of access can be revoked as quickly as it was given. We've got a conference room ready for you."

"Then let's get to it," Keller strode down the steps, followed by his entourage.


	23. Chapter 23 Awareness

A/N: Thank you all for the reviews! I know I start so many of my chapters off this way, but it truly is the best way to thank everyone for their support of this story (other than writing my a** off and being very happy to do it!). Thank you many times over for all the great reviews, private messages, and for making this story a favorite. I am writing as fast as I can to keep up with the requests. There are so many great ideas that I'm thinking a sequel is in order later on down the road. Of course, that would require me to finish this one first. ;)

Some clarifications are in order: I have taken some creative liberties with this chapter. For one, I really love the character of General Morshower. However, as much as I like Michael Bay and his puns, it makes it very hard to write two characters in the same scene that have the first name of Glenn. To clarify this for those that do not know, Michael Bay named the character "General Morshower" after the actor that played him. Yes, the character is Glenn Morshower, played by the actor Glenn Morshower. Considering I have Glen Whitman in my story as well, I have changed Morshower's first name to Benjamin. It just worked better for me. Apologies to all the Morshower fans I may offend with this change.

I have also assumed that the Australian sergeant in the second movie is Sergeant Dundee. From all the research I have been able to do, he is the best fit. I rather liked that character in the movie and will have fun with him later on in the series. If anyone can tell me where to find more information on him, that would be greatly, greatly appreciated. :D

With that being said, I give my usual disclaimer on how I do not own Transformers, and am not making any money from this. Please do not sue.

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Benjamin Morshower was already visible on the massive wall screen, the general appearing as polished and perfect as ever, and still managing to look less than pleased. Though he doubted anyone else drug away from a rare dinner with his wife would have been presented himself in any better of a mood. The only saving grace to the entire incident, and the only reason he wasn't calling for immediate repercussions against all involved in wrecking what little time he had to spend with his family since this war began, was the fact that the Transformers were beginning to fill his side of the screen.

Still, even after working with the Autobots for years, the sight of them never failed to impress him. A slight smile quirked the edge of his lips, zapping away a portion of his annoyance, as Optimus Prime and Ultra Magnus ducked down, nearly going to their knees in order to get through the door to the conference room. The room was supposedly designed to accommodate the needs of their new Cybertronian allies. And though the room was tall enough to easily support the two massive bots when standing at their full height, whatever genius designed the room had made the door only twenty feet tall.

He hoped the decision had something to do with the structural integrity of the place, and not out of some perverse prank. Regardless of the reason, neither bot ever complained, at least not in his hearing. He made a mental note to have the plans for that conference room reviewed and amended.

More people and Autobots continued to filter through the massive door. He recognized some of them. Ironhide, primarily. The Cybertronian had been a pleasure to work with in the past, his expertise in heading up the NEST branch at the Edwards Air Force Base in California invaluable. Walking at a brisk pace beside him was Sergeant Dundee, the Australian head and representative of that nation in the NEST agreement. A man who was also instrumental in the setup and operation of the Edwards NEST base. Dundee was a good man and a hell of a soldier, he remembered, loyal to a fault and brilliant with communications.

Even if the Aussie had refused the many attempts by the Americans to lure him over to their side, the General could not refute the value he added to the operation. He'd take the man any way he could get him.

He watched as the man in question followed Master Sergeant Epps up the stairs of the massive communication platform, followed by a host of other military personnel and leaders of NEST bases around the globe. The Autobots arranged themselves in a semi-circle with the platform in the middle, each standing within easy view of the camera. There were quite a few new additions, he noticed, both on the human side as well as the Cybertronian. He made another mental note to learn their designations and specializations rather quickly.

"General," Optimus greeted, nodding his head respectfully.

"Prime. Master Sergeant Epps. Respective military delegates," Morshower returned the respectful nod from the Autobot, giving a sharp salute to the men arrayed next to him on the communication plat form. "At ease, everyone. You all know how much I hate surprises. So I'm hoping that there's a really good reason as to why we've been dragged to this apparent super secret and necessary meeting. But before we get down to it, has there been any change in Major Lennox's condition?"

"The extent of his injuries was severe and calculated to be such. However, they were not meant to kill. Lennox will make a full recovery given time, as will Lieutenant Commander DeMarco," Optimus replied, making sure that Lydia's name—and her sacrifies in order to protect the humans on that doomed flight—were acknowledged. "Ratchet and Dr. Davenhurst have assured me of that fact."

Morshower nodded once. "Let the Major, and the Lieutenant Commander, know that we are all pulling for him."

"Thank you, General. Your concerns will be relayed."

"Good," Morshower shifted in his seat, his face falling into the familiar lines of a man with too much responsibility on his shoulders and not enough time. "Now that the pleasantries have been exchanged, I hope someone has a good reason as to why I'm sitting here a nine in the evening and you're in a conference room at seven in the morning, your time?"

"I can answer that."

The voice belonged to the last person Morshower had expected to see at that meeting. Indeed, it was the last person he had expected to see ever again. It was a little known fact that Keller's dismissal after the election of President Obama hadn't been from lack of skills, but out of revenge from the former Sector Seven leaders. Keller's only mistake had been to underestimate the extent of the long a reach of that group of Frankenstein-wannabe's. They had had their hooks into the Obama office long before the man had ever taken his oath of office.

Keller had been subsequently dismissed and refused any position in government. In essence, they had blackballed him into a forced retirement. More than a few of the joint chiefs had believed that to be the worst move made to date by the current administration, himself included. However, instead of fighting against it, Keller had gracefully resigned with the rest of the previous administration, retiring to Montana and his beloved fishing cabin.

Until now, apparently.

"Good to see you, Ben," Keller said, heading up the stairs of the communications platform, a bit of a smile toying with the edge of his lips. "How's Irene?"

"John," Morshower blinked a bit in surprise, the ends of his mouth curling up in a tight smile. "My wife is as feisty as ever, thank you, and rather pissed that I abandoned the steak dinner she put together for me in favor of this conference. Though given the timing, I should have known someone like you was behind this. What, pray tell, are you doing at Diego Garcia?"

"Executive orders," Keller replied, some of the mirth stolen from his eyes. He snapped his fingers and Maggie quickly joined him, handing him a set of documents from the briefcase she carried. She took a seat at one of the many computer stations, slender fingers typing at rather impressive speed for a human. "Miss Madsen is sending the official encrypted electronic set to you as we speak. Until then, you're just going to have to deal with me waving this paper copy at you via a camera. Settle in, Ben, and give Irene my apologies. This isn't going to be an easy or quick conversation."

"No offense, John, but they never are when you are involved."

"Comes with the territory. One doesn't hold the office of Secretary of Defense and maintain a reputation of being soft or easily trampled over."

Morshower lifted an eyebrow at that, his eyes starting to darken. "Obama put you back into that role? I must have missed that memo. Seems to be happening a lot lately."

John's brief smile became somewhat sarcastic. "Hardly, old friend. Looks like I've offended someone up high enough on the food chain that they're punishing me by making me take on Galloway's job in his stead."

That earned him a chuckle. "You're torment is my personal gain," Morshower added. "Regardless of the reasons, it's good to have you back on board. Now, I assume we've bantered enough to let everyone that needs to be here get here. We ready to get started?"

John glanced to his right, got a nod from Maggie. He looked to his left and Glen, seated at that computer station, flipped open his case and pulled out a laptop. It was a matter of sections to interface with the mainframe and the many other screens along the walls of the room began to come alive. The image displayed wasn't of a tactical attack or possible targets of Decepticon activities. That Morshower would have expected. Instead, the image of a smart-looking woman dressed in her military blues filled the screen. Next to her, portions of a military record began to slowly scroll by.

There was no mistake about it: it was Lydia's face on those screens.

"Gentleman, Autobots," Keller began, slipping on a pair of glasses. "What you are about to see has been labeled extremely classified by the United States Government. I'll ask you to hold any comments or questions until the end of the presentation. Trust me on this, a lot of things will be explained, and not all of them good."

~*~*~*~*~*~

She drifted in darkness, a limbo-like state of muted self-awareness.

Lydia knew that she shouldn't be enjoying this listless drifting, knew that it was nothing more than the decreased neural activity in her brain. But there was no pain in this semi-awareness. No physical agony from being stabbed in the heart and pieced back together. And certainly no emotional hell from having to leave Eclipse, Janet and Spiral behind in that bizarre after life place. Of all the things she had hoped to imagine, playing poker in the middle of some old Egyptian ruins wasn't on the top of her list.

And leaving Spiral, Eclipse and Janet there? Unthinkable. Had her brain been fully engaged to her surroundings, she would have done almost anything to bring them back with her. Every fiber of her being told her it would have been impossible. Dead was dead, after all. And yet every ounce of love she had ever possessed in her short life had compelled her to want to try. After all, if she could do it, could come back to life, why couldn't they?

Part of her understood why Prima had continually asked questions in that… whatever it was… state of existence. It had been a clever ploy to keep Lydia off guard, to keep her focused on the life she was about to leave behind. The femme was protecting her, she knew, trying to keep her from becoming another player in that exotic poker game. Somehow Prima had known that if Lydia had truly given her complete attention to the people seated at the table, and not to the words they were speaking, she would have ended up a permanent player.

In that way, she would have lost the game. Lydia realized in that moment that the game hadn't been about money. It had been about her life. And the bets around the table were pieces of her memories. And if that were true, then it made the most sense that she had had the richest bet of all each time it came down to her to throw chips in the pot. If she had run out of chips, it was highly likely that she would have run out of life to live.

Like the Egyptian ruins, she would have become an eternal fixture, a lingering memory blowing on the sands of time.

Smart. That had been wickedly smart of the femme. Because if Lydia had had so much as thought about the hell waiting for her upon awaking, she would have seriously considered remaining instead. It was a weak and cowardly thing to admit to herself, but that fact didn't make it any less true.

So she lingered in the state of non-being, wrapped in warmth that wasn't pleasant but not altogether unpleasant at the same time. There was so much she was going to have to prepare for, so many things she was going to have to face, and not all of them were physical or had to do with pains of the flesh. Was she strong enough, she had to ask herself? Was she truly strong enough to face Ratchet, to tell him what she felt? Could she handle even a gentle rejection from the medic? And what if he didn't reject her? What then? How would they make a future together, blend their lives together? And would he leave her once she started to grow old and no longer able to keep up?

Silly, she knew. Stupid and silly questions brought along by an equally stupid and silly fear. If he rejected her, then she would move on. Simple. Her life wouldn't end, even if it felt like her heart had stopped beating. She would always love the guy, always hope and wonder if he was doing alright. And always, always, wish nothing but peace for him.

It was silly to fear that. Just as it was silly to linger in the darkness of her mind. It was time to wake up—past time actually—if what she felt in her blood was any indication.

Because she could feel him in her veins, feel the pulse of his spark like the beat of her own heart. It wasn't something she could put into words. It was just a simple and yet not-so-simple part of her. His life force echoed inside her head, a wordless and soundless song of joy that turned what should have been darkness in her mind into muted shades of grey. It was impossible to feel like she lived in the black when light danced just out of reach of her fingertips. And the more she concentrated on it, the more clear and real that light became to her.

It was a light that was dimming with each passing day.

What was it that Eclipse had said to her in that strange poker-game place? _"Love him," Eclipse corrected her. "You aren't dead yet, chica. So that word needs to stay present tense, for your sake as much as for his."_

For your sake as much as for his... Lydia had thought the phrasing of that statement odd at the time. Though given where she was and who she was talking to, everything was odd and off-center, maddeningly so. So the thought was tucked away with almost every other word that was said, her attention focused on simply escaping the madness and the game. But why would her love for him be as important to him as it was to her? He didn't even know yet how she felt. Hell, it had taken a conversation with Arcee for her to realize it, herself.

She concentrated again on the light that was his life, and frowned so hard she almost cried. Fatigue echoed back to her from that light, a soul deep weariness that had nothing to do with the physical. The eons of his existence seemed to spread out before her in a line of loss and desperation, a life that had broken his promise to serve his people as a whole in neutrality. Instead, he had been forced to choose sides in a conflict that devoured his race whole. Even his word to become a medic, to heal and protect life, wasn't enough. He'd ultimately betrayed even that oath of office to become a warrior, to kill in order to save.

He was a creature of great hope, had always been such, regardless of the gruff exterior he displayed. And now he had finally allowed himself to care for someone again, and that someone was poised on the edge of life and death. The pain of it, the fear of the impending loss, was threatening to devour him.

_Love him. That word needs to stay present tense, for your sake as much as for his._

She wept in the partial darkness of her mind. He was on the edge of stasis lock, she somehow knew. All his energy had been spent repairing damage from the battle at the plane, and then the main bulk of it was spent watching over her. Protecting and healing, and… praying… Praying that she would open her eyes again.

If that wasn't a declaration of love, then nothing was.

The grays of her personal darkness gave way to lighter grays, and even those to the sticky feeling of dried tears on her eyelashes. It took more strength that she realized to make those tacky lashes part, and distorted shapes greeting her unfocused eyes. She blinked once, twice, blurry images slowly coming into focus. Dim blue optics glowed back at her, barely more than a candle flame in comparison to the sapphire bonfires she remembered.

"Lydia…" he said, so softly, so reverently. As if afraid the mention of her name would chase away the image of her opened eyes.

She tried to smile, her lips still cracked, healing and tender. Millions and billions of words danced in her head, wanting to fly across her tongue. There had to be so many ways to say the three words she wanted to say so badly. Ached to say so badly. "Hey," she found herself whispering back. "I think I'm supposed to be mad at you."

He blinked, every protocol in his processors locking him into place, pushing against the desire to turn off the containment field and snatch her up into his hands. He needed to touch her, to feel her skin in his hands, to know her body was filled with life and that this wasn't some hallucination brought on by energy loss. Sensors and instruments attached to her told him all of this, but nothing could reassure him like the sensation of her life cupped safely in his hands. The feeling of her fingertips against the metal of his face…

"Mad at me?" He asked, just as softly. "Why?"

"You need to recharge," she managed out hoarsely, licking dried lips. "You aren't taking care of yourself. I think I'm pissed about that."

His lip plates twitched, the smile on them made of mingled relief and amusement. "Look who's talking."

Her laugh was a ghost of a sound, bringing about a wince of pain that made him regret the bantering instantly. "I have an excuse," she mumbled. "I took on Ratbat and Starscream. Cut me some slack, doc."

"Foolish thing for a human to do," the tenderness in his optics belied the rebuke in his voice. A very faint thought danced across his processors, a warning that she should not have known the name of her second adversary. But that thought found itself buried next to all the others, outshone by the fact that she was awake and talking to him. "You should have run."

"Not very many options on a plane, doc. But I'll keep that advice in mind next time," she swallowed hard, grimacing. "May I have some water? My throat is so dry."

He nodded, deactivating the containment field and simultaneously engaging the maximum security locks on the med bay doors. No one was going to interrupt this moment, not if he had to weld the damn doors shut himself. No one and no bot was going to destroy what might be their last moments together. Especially if the others found out—

He cut off that line of thought, shoving the unwanted contemplations under other subroutines and burying it there. The water cup was hard for him to fill, so tiny in his giant hands. But he managed to do it, inserting the straw into the disposable cup and carrying it back to her bedside. Slowly, Lydia tried to push herself into a sitting position, the grunts of pain she tried to suppress sounding like raw agony to his audio receivers.

"Don't," he cautioned, setting aside the cup. One finger tapped ever so softly against her unwounded shoulder, trying to ease her back to the bed. "You are still badly damaged. The last thing you need is to stress your systems."

A lopsided grin appeared on those torn lips, and even if it made her wince to perform the action, it was one of the most beautiful things his optics had ever seen. It meant that she had survived, that the core essence that was Lydia DeMarco had emerged triumphant from the many things he had had to do to save her life. He sagged to his knees before he realized it, bringing himself nearly to eye level with her if she stood. Prayers he had not used in thousands of years flying free in his processors. Prayers of _thanks, _of utter and complete respite and joy.

Prayers he never thought he would be able to offer again. Not since the death of Starflare.

Ratchet transformed one finger into a series of tiny clamps, making it easier to manipulate the cup of water and bring it to her lips. Even then some of the water spilled over the edge, and it took him a moment to realize that he had fallen to his knees, that his fingers—fingers that were the most solid and stable of all the surviving Autobots—were trembling slightly. Relief and fear and everything in between raced through his circuits. He had never before known such confusion, such a mix of unrelated emotional responses.

It terrified him down to his spark.

It left him nearly screaming aloud for more.

Lydia ignored his advice and continued to push herself until she sat up slightly in the bed. Her lips wrapped around the straw, delicately taking in minute sips of water. Her eyes continued to stare into his optics, though, and emotions raced through those lovely orbs faster than he could process. And when he thought she had finished with the water, he started to pull it back, only to have her hands wrap around his fingers. Those magnificent eyes of hers continued to stare at him, into him, as if reading the inner most whispers of his spark.

"Yo-you need to rest," he managed out, the words sticking in his vocal processor for some reason.

"So do you."

"I will rest when I am certain you are safe."

She used his hand like a bracing bar, swung her legs out from under the blanket. He could not bring himself to look at them, to see the scratches and bruises, the flesh wounds that still had yet to heal. "Is there any place safer than here with you?"

He could not stop the quiver of pleasure that danced across his sensors when her fingers wiped the few droplets of split water from his finger, bringing those drops to her lips. Such an odd thing, that water. A substance necessary for her survival, and so very common on this planet. And yet it was the thing that bound them now, an element that he would savor for the rest of his existence. Water was now one of the most precious items in his universe, no matter how abundant it was.

Precious and dear, because she was precious and dear to him.

And when she lurched forward, nearly throwing herself into his palm, he caught her. Words fled him, conscious thought nearly evaporated at the contact of her flesh to his metal skin. There was only a rush of emotion, of an elation he had never, ever known before.

She found herself cradled against his chest plates, held tenderly against where his spark was housed. "Here," he whispered. "Here is always safe."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Prowl waited until Ratchet was into full recharge mode on one of the berths, his human cradled in his hands against his spark, before he disconnected the video feed. The feelings within the security officer were mixed, filled with happiness that his friend had finally found a kind of peace in their dark existence. But there was also a mix of anger there, and frustrated sorrow. Of all the beings in the galaxy that they had encountered, why did Ratchet have to fall in love with one of the most short-lived? Why could it not be one of their own kind, a dependable and non-fragile femme, like Flareup for instance? Or Arcee?

Why did it have to be a human that would fade and die far, far too soon?

He could not ignore the joy he saw in the medic's optics when Lydia opened her eyes. Just as he could not—and would not—denounce the fierce pride he felt when Ratchet had fallen to his knees, holding his love to his spark in the ancient ways of their kind. Reverence, that was what he felt in that moment. Utter reverence that one could know completeness in the middle of war, and that one would remember to honor the old ways of their kind in the midst of his joy.

He would follow through on his word. As much as he disagreed with the choice of mate, he would defend their rights with every bit of his spark. And, like Optimus, he would be there later, when Ratchet's beloved finally died, to help pick up the pieces. It was his duty. It was his way to honor his friend, and to keep alive the dwindling traditions of their race.

Prowl tapped a few more keys on his data pad, placing his own security code and lock upon the med bay doors in addition to Ratchet's. One could never have too much privacy in his opinion. Satisfied that Ratchet and his human would not be disturbed for some time, he exited his office and headed to the main conference room.


	24. Chapter 24 Outrage

A/N: I have to say that the support for this story (and the love pouring in for Lydia) has truly taken me by surprise. :) Each time I think I've written the story in such a way that everyone will hate it and loose interest, you all send me loving reviews and private messages. Thank you, thank you, thank you for that. These keep me going when I write chapters like this one. I have gone through periods of writing this when I save it to the flash drive and then hurled the flash drive across the room. Only to go and pick up the flash drive again and hope I haven't lost any data. Waves of frustation and personal writing agony have gone into a few of these chapters. A few of them are written so swiftly and with such zeal that I think it will never end. And then you have chapters, again like this one, that left me staring at the computer screen for hours on end more times than not.

This may sound crazy, but it truly is hell when you have several Autobots running around inside your skull, all arguing over the best course of action in a given situation. That doesn't even count the many humans that figure they can handle it all on their own, and then try to sneak off when the Autobots aren't looking. Hell doesn't even begin to cover days like those. So I suppose this is my rambling way of saying **_THANK YOU ALL SO VERY MUCH_** for the reviews and the kind private messages. You all make this story great. I'm just the pair of hands that type it out. :)

PS--This one is a little dark again. But I promise the next one will have some fluffy moments. There is a whole lot of good coming to even out the bad. Please have faith. :)

On that note, I have to admit that Prowl and Wheeljack may be OOC in this chapter. :( I try to avoid that at all costs. I really do. However, I don't have access to any information on how the two would act when angered to the point of spark attack. I have done my best to try and keep them IC. My apologies all around if I get it wrong. And while I am admitting to my errors, I wanted to give a huge loving ball of shout out to **Botosphere** and **Isis the Sphinx** for catching my errors in the last chapter. Sergeant Dundee should have been Sergeant Graham. And I had quite a few typos in the last chapter, too. ::blushes to her toes:: My beta hs given up on me when it comes to TF fics. She's fabulous beyond compare for anything Highlander or CSI related. But as for TF? She knows as much as I do, which isn't very much at all. So please, please please be kind and forgiving while I try to find another beta? ::looks cute?::

As always, I do not own Transformers. Please don't sue. This is only for fun.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The room was silent, the images that had flashed across the screen moments ago now frozen in place. Seven larger than life human faces stared out at the room from those screens, their relevant data scrawled out to the left of their image. Two of those faces were intimately known to the Autobots and NEST members in the room, of that Maggie was certain. One didn't have to have a doctorate in psychology—or spend massive amounts of time around the Cybertronains—to understand everyone's reaction to those two photographs.

Lieuteneant Commander Lydia DeMarco was a beloved friend and comrade as far as she could tell. But there was something about Captian Joshua Eddard that had most of the Autobots present flickering their optics in barely controlled distrust.

She cast a nervous glance over at Glen, found him returning the same look. Her heart was racing, and for the first time since facing off with Frenzy almost two years ago, she felt a tremble of fear working its way up her spine when gazing at the assembled bots. All around the room, the Autobots stood stock still, and if what was in Major Lennox's briefing package about Cybertronian customs was correct, they were standing that still and that silent in a massive display of serious self-control. And yet, every so often, she would watch a flash of red appear in the blue flickering optics. It was the red that had her worried, had her reaching for the glock pistol that should be at her back. The one that might as well be resting half a galaxy away in Master Sergeant Epp's lockbox in his office for all the good it would do her now.

They were pissed. There was no mistake about that. No, they were beyond that, she mused darkly. Though their faces were masks of blank emotion, their optics displayed that outright and caged fury. And even with the escalating fear drenching her soul, she could not blame them for that anger. Had she been in their position, she would have felt the same.

Maggie swallowed hard, turning in a slow circle. She took in the screens all around the room, reading the data displayed there with true compassion in her eyes. Five of the seven humans displayed had no connection to the military, and none of the displayed seven had any connection to each other that she could discern. The first was an elementary school teacher; the second a construction project manager. The third was a lawyer and the fourth was a New York City Detective. The last was a sixteen year old high school student. They were located in New York, Chicago, Miami, Seattle, and some tiny little town in Texas called Plano.

Five lives completely separate from one another in every way. Five lives now forever joined by the implants they carried. Five lives in very real and unbelievable danger. Maggie had thought that Frenzy had been scary, that the sight of NBE-1, a.k.a Megatron, had made her insides quiver like jelly. Just the mere thought that not only Megatron, but a whole lot of other Decepticons as well, could be chasing after her was enough to make her want to scream for mercy. She couldn't imagine the horror of it.

Nor the horror that apparently ran through the processors of their Autobot allies.

Ironhide was the first to break the silence, the weapon's expert stepping forward against the communications platform so that he was eye to eye with Keller, barely a foot of space separating the two. "Seven," he rumbled calmly, oh so deadly and calmly. "You have done this to seven of your own kind without their knowledge or consent."

It was a statement, not a question. John Keller stood his ground, his own features a mix between resigned sorrow and firm dedication. He did not so much as a bat an eye at Ironhide. "I could stand here and tell you that it wasn't me, personally, that put this program in place. I could also tell you that if I could turn back time, I would have destroyed Sector Seven long before it ever became a mockery of everything it was meant to be in the first place. But those would be excuses. In my mind, there is no excuse for what was done. So I will answer you with a simple 'yes.' Yes, our people did this to our own."

"We had no way of knowing," Tom Banachek began, bravely stepping over to the newly appointed liaison, turning his gaze out over the assembled NEST team. He still wore that black on black suit, still carried the air of command around him even though everyone in the room knew he had no real authority any longer. "Had we known—"

"You would have what?" Ironhide shouted, hands balling into fists. His voice lost all semblance of calm, snapping through the conference room like a crack of lightning. "Hidden these humans from us? Perhaps performed further experiments on them like you tried to do to Bumblebee? Do not think for one astrosecond that I or any other bot have forgotten _that _incident. Or would you have ripped those parts from their flesh in an effort to clean up your own mess? Nothing you have to say, human, will be an acceptable excuse for what you have done."

Banachek's face flushed hot with his anger. He stepped forward, hands grasping the railing as he leaned ever closer to Ironhide's face. "What we did saved lives," he argued, the reasonableness in his tone from a moment ago fading as if it had never been. "Your precious Lydia would have been a comatose vegetable without those implants. A blind, drooling shell of what she is now without—"

"She almost ended up in that state because of your interference, human," Prowl interrupted softly, and yet like Ironhide's voice, his words crashed through the room all the same. Every eye and optic turned towards the black-and-white security officer as he made his way towards the platform. Prowl ignored the stares, his optics a velvety purple color, the only outward indication of his rare show of emotions. Of his very, _very_ rare show of temper. "It is still likely that she will not fully recover from her current damage levels."

"The injuries Lieutenant Commander DeMarco suffered as a result of her battle with the Decepticons are not—"

The platform shook violently from the force of Prowl's open hand slamming down on it, the metal warping and forming a perfect indentation of his hand. Glen was tossed out of his chair, crying out as Hot Rod plucked him from the platform almost before he fell to the ground. Maggie shrieking as her heels lost their traction on the metal grate that served for a floor. She pitched forward into Ironhide's open palm, landing and clinging to the large mech's hand. It took her a moment to realize that Keller was right next to her in those cupped metallic palms. The two exchanged glances, and then backed up as far as they could towards Ironhide's chest plating without slipping through his fingers.

"Do I have your full attention now, human?" Prowl asked, towering over the sprawled Banachek. Again, the Autobot second-in-command stunned everyone in the room by ignoring the presence of Optimus Prime and Ultra Magnus at his back, the two poised to grab and wrestle him away in the blink of an optic. "Do I? Because if you still require further demonstrations as to why you should listen to my every word, I can and will provide them."

All the color drained from Banachek's face. He stared up with wide eyes, and managed a jerky nod.

"Good," Prowl straightening up to his full height, though his palm remained firmly planted in the platform. "I am here to inform you of the folly of your so-called 'help.' In your pride and your arrogance, you did not fully test the strength of the things you created, did you? You did not think of the health of the individuals involved before you hacked through their systems and filled them with incompatible pieces. There was a medic of our kind that did the same thing to his own—I believe you know him as the Decepticon designated as Scalpel. Like him, you only thought of ways to make your own kind faster and stronger. So do not insult us all with your half-truths and excuses that you did what you did to save lives. You did it simply because you could."

"Ask any bot here about the horrors of the beginning of the war," Prowl continued, his voice echoing in the conference room, enveloping every attention span until the force of that focus was like a entity riding the currents of air. "Ask them about siblings and loved ones that wished to remain neutral in the war. Ask them about the forced conscription of civilians and the 'medical procedures' that were supposed to protect them. Entire generations were stripped down to their protoforms, parts so contrary to their primary programming haphazardly welded into their frames. Many went mad from it, and those that did not immediately offline from the madness faced memory core wipes and personality reconstructions."

"That wasn't our intention," Banachek managed out and then nearly scrambled on his back four feet as Prowl turned the full weight of those amethyst optics on him.

"In the beginning," Prowl interjected, the sneer on his mouth plates belying the calm in his voice. "Neither was it the intentions of our medical officers. But as the war escalated, it was viewed as so much easier to make existing mechs into warriors in hopes of a fast end to the war than it was to explore other options. Those of us that survived such things vowed to never see it repeated. And the fact that you did this to your own kind, that you used parts manufactured from Cybertronian design—regardless of your ignorance of our existence at the time—makes us as a whole as guilty now as we were back then. You _butchered_ these people, human. You, and your precious Sector Seven. Do not expect us to be sympathetic to the horrors you created. If you truly cared for the advancement of your race and the quality of your short lifespans, you would have never, ever gone down this path. Your pride and arrogance are rivaled only by the Decepticons."

It was meant to be a curse, that last statement, and everyone knew it. Everyone, that is, except the person it was hurled at.

"How dare you," Banachek retorted, climbing to his feet, his face nearly as purple as Prowl's optics. "You do not know the half of what these so-called butchered people went through before their implantation. And if you have hang-ups about what we have reverse-engineered from NBE-1, then deal with them on your own time. I am here under direct orders from my President. Against my wishes, I'm going to help you locate the five other humans implanted and remove those implants if at all possible. You may just get your wish, Autobot. Most likely they will die in the process. Does that make you happy?"

The look that passed through Prowl's optics had Maggie whimpering without realizing it. Ironhide moved quickly enough at that sound, and she found herself and her boss dumped unceremoniously into a random Autobot's hands. Those impressive cannons of his rolled forward, the sound of energon flaring to life in them filling the silence left in the wake of Banachek's outburst.

The whole incident lasted less than ten seconds, but it was a testament to the way the Autobots felt about both the implant mess and their promise to protect life. Not just Ironhide's weapons were primed. All around the room, blasters and swords had appeared as if by magic and most of them aimed at one of their own. They would kill Prowl, she knew. They would blast him to protect Banachek, if only because he was human and they took their vows of protecting life that seriously.

Unlike most humans, she had to admit, who appeared to seek only personal gain.

Maggie wanted to scream, wanted to tell them all to put down their weapons. She wanted to reassure Prowl that Banachek's views weren't her own; that many humans would feel what she felt had they known about the nefarious deeds committed beneath the Hoover dam. Most of all, she wanted to wipe away the obvious pain and horror she saw reflected back from those violet optics. Some part of her realized that the mech had shared more about himself in those few minutes of dialogue than he had shared about the history of his race.

She just didn't know how to stop it all. And, being shielded in the hands of an unknown silvery mech, she didn't really have a lot of options. _If they have to take down Prowl over all this crap_, she thought frantically, _then they are never ever going to forgive us for what we have done. There has to be a way to stop this! _

"Enough," Optimus ordered, the light in his own optics less than friendly.

His majestic voice didn't exactly bounce throughout the room as Prowl's and Ironhide's had, but it filled the space nonetheless. A calm echo to soothe the rumbles of thunderous anger in the room. He placed an armored hand on Prowl's shoulder. Not to restrain completely, she noted, but more like to offer comfort and support at the same time. It was like he had come to the same conclusion she had, that Prowl had shared more about himself that he had intended to.

"Easy my friend," Optimus murmured. "You have spoken well and with eloquence, but I believe the point has been made. It is not your fault if it is not received. Go with Ultra Magnus. Obtain a detailed report on the status of Major Lennox and Lieutenant Commander DeMarco and return to me."

Prowl nodded once, the platform shaking as he peeled his hand from it. Every eye in the room lingered, however, on that imprint of his palm. It was a deadly reminder of the impressive strength held in the Security Officer. It was also a serious reminder that while logic ruled his existence, Prowl was as Cybertronian as the rest of them, complete with emotions and memories and scars within his spark for all he had had to witness. Without another word, Prowl and Magnus turned and departed the room.

Optimus watched in silence as Hot Rod and Sideswipe returned the humans in their hands to the communications platform, gaining nods from each that they were unharmed, if emotionally shaken by Prowl's display. Not that he could blame them. The rare show of emotion from his second-in-command had disturbed him, too. And he wasn't the only one, he noted as well, watching the spectrum of emotions playing across the faces of his soldiers—Autobot and human alike.

"Is what Prowl said true?" Morshower asked, and all gazes shifted to his image on the central screen. The General looked a bit pale and green, like he would rather throw up instead of speak. But anger also glittered in those too-intelligent eyes. "Is that how things played out in the beginning of your war?"

Optimus inclined his head in sad agreement. "Prowl spoke the truth. I will not excuse his actions. No mech or femme would find anything but disgust in what has happened to these humans."

"I'm not asking you to excuse them," Morshower replied, turning a glower on Banachek. "On behalf of the United States, I ask that _you_ excuse the actions of Agent Banachek. Rest assured that after this operation is complete, you won't have any trouble from him again."

"I will second that," Keller offered. "However, his intimate knowledge of Sector Seven and the experiments done within its scope are invaluable to the retrieval of these people."

"Not to throw us off topic," Sideswipe cut in, his optics back to that cool blue the Autobots tended to favor. "But why the sudden interest in these humans now? You had access to the Sector Seven information for the better part of two years, and from what I am scanning, these humans have functioned with their implants for longer than that. What's going on to move them up on the priority list?"

"Good question," Keller agreed, taking a moment to clean his glasses on a soft cloth from his pocket. "This is where things start to get interesting. We believe that the Decepticon known as Starscream has more than a passing interest in them. He has captured one already. Glen, if you would be so kind as to show them the footage."

It took Glen a second or two to stop his hands from shaking, to get his mind back into the proverbial game. Still, his fingers trembled as he called up the relevant data. The information on the various screens winked out, save for the image of a Hispanic woman in her late twenties-early thirties. Elayna Feugo was her name, Detective with the New York City Police Department, homicide division. And then even that image faded and resolved into the view of a New York City street in chaos.

Smoke billowed from bodegas and corner stores, chunks of concrete falling into frame from the crumbling facades of brownstone buildings. People screamed and ran. Sirens wailed and bellowed as fire trucks and police cruisers came into view. One, in particular, caught the eye of everyone once more. Barricade flashed into the center of the screen, his holographic driver looking like the perfect NYPD cop. The front doors opened on the Decepticon, and the holo driver and it's holo partner fell to one knee, pretending to take aim at the storefront nearest them.

Looking for all the world like the friendly, dependable, solid cops one would love to have in that kind of situation.

Elayna appeared, running in a serpentine fashion towards the waiting Barricade, a man that had to be her partner running right behind. In her arms was a little girl, barely more than a toddler. The child screamed and clung to the woman, wiping with tiny fists at the blood that poured from the gash in her hairline. Both were covered in dust and dirt, both evidenced bloody smears from scratches and bruises. Everyone watched in muted horror as Elayna sped towards the police cruiser, coming up short too late as her eyes focused on the "to enslave and punish" emblazoned on the car's side.

"Edgars!" she screamed, twisting in mid-run and flinging the child at him. "Take the girl. Run! Run, now!"

"Fuego!" Edgars yelled, catching the child. His free hand reached out towards his partner, obviously hoping to slow the skid she had put herself into when tossing him the girl. His fingers missed, and Elayna fell to hands and knees, sliding ever closer to the waiting Decepticon.

"Where is Lieutenant Commander Lydia DeMarco?" Barricade bellowed through one of his holoforms.

"Who?" Elayna slid to a halt two feet from the open doors, Edgars diving behind a dumpster to cover himself and the girl. "Lay down your weapons and get your hands in the air. I don't know who you are but you're not NYPD. Now do as I say!"

Barricade growled in disgust. "I know you know her, human. You share the same energon signature. You bear similar parts. Now tell me, where is the human designated Lieutenant Commander Lydia DeMarco and I may let you live."

Elayna drew her gun with rapid ease, pointing at the officer that had spoken. "No clue what you are talking about, _hombre_," she insisted. "But you have to the count of two to comply before I fire."

Barricade's response was to release a tightly controlled EMP burst. Windows shattered under the concussive force and the image from the camera fizzled and began to blur. Elayna, Edgars and the child slumped to the concrete, unconscious or worse. The last image replayed was that of Barricade transforming to his bi-pedal form and scooping up the limp form of the woman. "Lord Starscream will have use for you."

The scene ended. The screen went dark.

"We got this footage from a security camera less than twelve hours ago," Keller announced softly into the heavy silence. "Glen was able to restore the pieces you just saw. That EMP burst destroyed most of the images."

"It was enough," Epps interjected darkly, crossing his arms over his chest. "How did he get their names?"

"Unknown," Maggie replied. "As General Morshower can confirm, we have detected no serious intrusions or hacks to the military defense network. Unless the Decepticons have come up with a new and virtually undetectable virus, there is no possible way they got this information from our databanks."

"What we do know is that we need your help to gather up the others," Keller pointed out, casting his gaze across all assembled. "What we don't know is how he learned of their implants in the first place."

"I believe we can answer the second part," Optimus put in with a nod. "Starscream was the main combatant in the attack on your military craft in Virginia. During that assault, he interacted with Lieutenant Commander DeMarco. The implants in her body reacted to his presence."

"Reacted how, exactly?" Morshower asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"Analysis is still ongoing," Optimus explained. "However, we can tell you that the energy contained within the Decepticon activated the implants within Lydia's frame. They began to function at what you would consider superhuman levels. The side effect of this process was intense pain and some neural damage to her processors."

Banachek's eyes glittered with something akin to appreciation and elation. It was enough that Maggie slammed her chair backward seemingly on accident, shoving the man until he stumbled and had to grab ahold of the mangled railing to keep from falling from the platform. If he did, she doubted that any Autobot would have gone out of their way to rescue the man. They wouldn't have let him fall to his death. But they would have let him take a good bruising before they acted.

"How bad is the damage?" Keller asked softly.

"Bad," Wheeljack put in, his sidebars flashing in a display of extreme annoyance. "Thankfully, Ratchet and I have managed to undo most of it. Be extremely grateful for that, human," he said to Banachek. "Else you find yourself up on charges of forced offlining."

Banachek looked like he was going to open his mouth and argue. Keller stopped him with a glance. "I think you've said enough, Mr. Banachek. Do us all a favor and put your tongue in neutral unless called upon. Now," he continued, looking back to Wheeljack and Optimus. "You said that the implants reacted to the presence of the Decepticons. Lieutenant Commander DeMarco has been working along side you for months now. Was there a reaction to your presence?"

Wheeljack shook his head in the negative. "No. While her parts were of Cybertronian desent, they were not manufactured from Autobot design. Our energy signatures differ from those of the Decepticons on many levels. Consider those signatures like a human fingerprint. There is only one per Cybertronian, and each are radically different. However, they can be modified slightly."

"Which is how you identify one another," Epps finished, nodding in understanding. "Smart. Better than dog tags and voice recognition for security."

"And since Lydia's parts were reverse engineered from NBE-1, it makes sense that they would recognize Decepticon energy patterns." Morshower concluded, looking less than pleased.

"Not exactly correct," Wheeljack imparted, his optics starting on that tale-tell slide from blue to red. "At least in the case of Lydia, her parts weren't reverse engineered. They were salvaged _from_ Megatron, himself."

A compartment slid open in Wheeljack's wrist and a small cube-shaped containment unit ejected itself. Floating in the vacuum within the tiny cube was what looked to be a human eye. Except the eye itself looked like it was made of glittery metallic material and not the milky white tissue of organic creatures. Wheeljack placed the cube on the communications platform so that all could view it.

"This isn't reverse engineered," the inventor continued, his voice following his optics and sliding into a growl more than a conversational tone. "This is a slice of Megatron's right optic, something that his internal nannite repair systems would have regenerated without issue. So tell me, what did you humans do? Cut out the pieces and force All-Spark energy through them? Hope that maybe you would grow a whole new mech from the sample? Because you seriously cannot stand there and make us believe that you used All-Spark energy just to turn your cell phones into drones for fun. I have proof right here that this wasn't constructed or _reverse engineered._ This kind of nearly perfect work could only have been accomplished from the All-Spark directly."

Weapons appeared all over the conference room once more, cannons primed and the _slide-click_ sound of automatic pistols in the hands of the humans filled the air, and this time Maggie didn't whimper or flinch. This time, for a tiny second, she actually hoped the mechs would burn the man down on the spot. "You poor bastard," she hissed, the words barely audible. "I wouldn't give an ounce of piss for your future now."

Optimus crossed to the center of the room, placing his entire body between the angered mechs and humans and Banachek. The look on his face was all they needed to back down. Some did it instantly, others, like Ironhide, took longer. And still, one or two, like Sideswipe and Sergeant Graham, kept their weapons visibly in hand.

"What has been done has been done," Optimus declared, his voice carrying over the room with a sense of finality. "We cannot undo the past. The All-Spark is no more. Sector Seven is no more. And while we all feel abject fury in place of our friend, Lydia, we will not help her or the others now in danger by destroying this human. Back down, all of you. Remember yourselves and your oaths, or leave."

"Banachek," Optimus turned his head, glaring at the human. "This is your chance to start undoing the damage you and your Sector Seven have caused. Is Wheeljack correct? Did the parts within all of these humans come from Megatron and the All-Spark?"

"The Phoenix Project was the only instance of All-Spark grown implants," Banachek gritted out between clenched teeth. He gripped the railing with white-knuckled hands. "The others contain implants that were solely reverse engineered from NBE-1. Project Phoenix was our prototype, our star subject for lack of a better term."

Optimus moved in a flash of red and blue, one hand locking around Wheeljack's throat and hurling him backward through the crowd. No one had seen the other mech start to move on the human, though later, as each mech replayed the last minutes of that horrible meeting, they saw it clearly. For Lydia's sake, for her honor, Wheeljack would have stabbed the man through with the instrument probe that had appeared in his hand. Regardless of the consequences to himself. And secretly, each one of them stopped referring to the mech as a half-crazed, air-for-processors inventor, and revered him as one of the most loyal among them when it came to his allies.

Brawn and Cliffjumper caught the mech, holding him tightly.

"LET GO!" the inventor screamed. "_Project _Phoenix? _**PROTOTYPE?!**_ She has a designation, you slagging glitch. Prime, tell them let me go! Let me present this pit-spawned creature's head to Lydia's sparkmate. He deserves nothing less!"

"Brig him," The Autobot leader said, his voice heavy with mingled annoyance and sorrow. "I will see to his punishment personally at a later time. As for now, this meeting is over. Enough information has been presented to begin our task of retrieving these humans. Master Sergeant Epps and I will formulate a plan and organize retrieval teams."

"Right," Morshower nodded, his eyes following the retreating mechs for the briefest of moments. "I'll get to work finding the other four on this list and having them escorted to a secure location."

"We appreciate the efforts—on both sides of this team," Keller added. "May we remain on Diego Garcia for the duration of this mission?"

"Agreed. However," Optimus pointed a metal armored finger towards Banachek. "This human will be under escort the entire time. For his own protection as well as for ours."

"Agreed," Morshower echoed. "Banachek, if you have any issues with these restrictions, speak up now so we can have you hauled off this base. If I catch wind of you causing any issues and having to be escorted later, you are going to pray that Wheeljack had his way with you before I'm through. Good luck, gentlemen and Autobots."

The General's screen winked out.


	25. Chapter 25 Joy

A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews! Just when I think I've done something to loose all the readers, I get the reviews and messages again, and words fail me when I try to express my gratitude. You all are so awesome for supporting this story and my ideas with it. Thank you all for reading, and as long as you read, I will keep writing. :D

I want to take a moment and apologize to anyone I have offended with this last chapter. I know it was very dark, and that I probably should have changed the rating to 'M' when I posted it. It didn't cross my mind to do that. I'm afraid that when I get into the so-called 'zone' when writing this story, I forget that what I'm putting down on the screen might offend or hurt other people. I get lost to the words and the muse and, well... it is what it is. So please, accept my apologies. I hope the next couple of chapters won't be so dark. ::glares at the muse:: We could use some lighter moments in the darkness.

I would also ask everyone to bear with me as the ongoing search for a Beta is continuing. All typos and issues are solely my fault. I have someone interested in the idea of being a beta for my Transformers fics. Hopefully ::crosses fingers:: she will put up with me enough to decide to take the job.

I want to take another moment and thank Hummergrey for her support, inspiration and friendship. And for not being offended when I randomly pop up in chat to poke, prod, or beg help with a plot piece here, or just need a kind word there. Thank you, thank you. A million times, thank you. :D

As always, I do not own Transformers and I am not making any money off of this. Please do not sue. This is just for fun.

* * *

Lydia drifted in darkness once more.

Though to be honest, she couldn't really call it a true darkness this time. Nothing termed as darkness could feel as sweet, as safe, as she felt in that moment. There was warmth, a soul-deep resonance that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. It infused her, sinking past skin to the bone and even deeper than that. Parts of her that she never knew existed, parts of her that she was certain would never show up on any kind of scan, photo, or x-ray (whether human or Cybertronian in design), blossomed into joyous life in reaction to that warmth. They were parts that defied the physical world and it's puny rules and regulations, choosing instead to exist only in that place that gave birth to pure emotion.

Not six months back, she would have adamantly denied that such parts of a person could be real. For a former pilot-turned-accountant, affairs and matters of the spiritual or the heart were like... like phantom numbers or depreciation tables. They were concepts that threw normal conventions out the window and screwed up any spreadsheet calculation but good. and yet unlike depreciation schedules and negative numbers, there was nothing to prove such pieces of a human heart existed. She had certainly found nothing to support the theory. Her extent of knowledge in the area of love consisted of a string of one-night stands and a shameful yet never consummated emotional affair with her former captain. Not exactly the safest set of experiences to use to balance the financial equation of the heart.

But this? Now? Now this sensation gave her something greater to believe in than a washed out career, had formulated the proof that there was something more to life than growing old and retiring to obscurity. Now she was a true believer.

That scintillating feeling lit up the darkness. It changed what should have been a frozen and terrifying oblivion of numbness into something beautifully calm. That was the only way she could describe it. Just a pure, gentle calm that defied all definition. It felt as if someone had taken the emotion of peace and spun it out in tangible fibers, and then had mercifully wrapped her battered body in a blanket made of those magnificent threads.

"Thank you," she whispered aloud as she drifted, overcome by what she felt. Needing to express that emotion somehow.

"You're welcome," he answered gently.

His words—much like the warmth—seemed to come from everywhere around her. Like she was swimming in a sea made only of his voice. It surprised her to hear it, though deep inside, she knew that she shouldn't be surprised at all. He wasn't going to let her out of his sight again any time soon. And if that meant following her into her very dreams, so be it.

Still, she frowned slightly. "Ratchet?"

"Yes. I'm here."

A hand touched her hair, fingers sliding through unruly obsidian curls. Again, this should have alarmed her, feeling that touch. It felt like human hands, and not the thick-armored fingers she would have expected. And yet… there was something about that touch, something about the way it sent waves of relief through her. And when she meant through her, she literally meant _through_ her. It was almost as if she could feel that loving tenderness start at her head and flow like fine liquid gold down to the tips of her toes.

There was no room for fear in that golden, liquid warmth. More than that, there was no reason to fear so long as she lingered in ocean of his voice. Here was safety, he had told her. Here was always safe.

"You can open your eyes," he chuckled softly, affection adding little tingles to the warmth around her.

Those tingles popped against her skin like minuscule bubbles made of laughter. And she couldn't help the smile that started to form on her lips. "I don't want to," she whispered back.

"Why?"

The warmth shifted slightly, and Lydia was aware that she was laying gently on her back, that she had one arm flung across her face to shield her eyes. Her other arm was outstretched, the fingers of that hand lazily swaying back and forth in a pool of that golden warmth. Every so often, the tingles of his amusement would pop and tickle against that hand, eliciting the response he wanted from her. Laughter. And when she did laugh, what felt like a silvery ribbon-like tendril of reverence would slide up her arm and bring with it a fresh wave of peace.

"You refuse to answer?" he questioned, a slight playfulness to his tone. It felt as if his voice was somehow closer as he whispered. "I have ways of making you talk."

That whisper had parts of her trembling, and not with fear. "I just bet you do."

He laughed at that, and she realized it was the first time she had truly heard that sound come from him. She'd heard him chuckle, of course, but there had always been a sad quality to the sound. Like all his joy was smeared with a thick layer of pain he couldn't quite chip away completely. She had heard even what one would consider a rowdy and rough guffaw echo from his vocal processors. Though normally that sound was reserved for when he was discussing something with Wheeljack or Ironhide, when he thought she or any other human wasn't around to hear. Most likely it had something to do with Cybertronian humor or a war story with elements way over any human head to understand.

But this? This laugh was like the first breath of spring over the winter ground. And wasn't that how she described him once? It felt like a lifetime ago that she stood at the gates to the main Autobot hangar on Diego Garcia. She in jeans and a t-shirt, he in armor as always. But what made that night so different from all the others was the look on his face plates. He had had this admiration dancing across his optics as he had gazed at the sunset, replaying a remembered moment that must have filled him with reverence. She remembered feeling a quick stab of jealousy for whatever or whomever he watched from behind his optics.

"_Whatever it is you see behind your eyes, I'm jealous of it."_

"_Just thinking," he replied, tipping his head to the side. "Why would you be jealous?"_

"_Every female in the world—Autobot or human—would give almost everything to have someone stare at them like that."_

"_Like what?" he snapped._

_She leaned in close, lowering her voice. "Like she was the first deep breath of sweet life a male had taken after centuries of breathing shallowly."_

Impossibly, the warmth that surrounded her somehow filled with that much more elation. And he chuckled again. "I, too, cherish that memory."

Lydia gave a start of surprise. "You heard my thoughts?"

She got the impression that he was nodding. "I did. Just as you hear mine in this place," that hand slid through her hair again. "Why will you not open your eyes?"

A thorn of fear poked at her from all that delight, and on reflex she bit her lower lip before she realized she was doing it. She tensed on reflex, expecting a jolt of misery from the action. Weren't her lips battered still? The fact that she felt no pain, that her torn lips were smooth between her teeth, added another thorn of fear and washed across her with relief at the same time. "I'm afraid," she whispered.

"Of what, dear one?"

"That this is a dream," she sighed, rolling over onto her stomach, her hair flowing down around her shoulders and over her face as she did so. Though her eyes remained closed. "That I will wake up and realize this is all a dream. Or that I'll never wake up at all, and that I'm in some kind of coma or brain-dead state or something. Because this feels so perfect, so magical, that it can't possibly be real. And I'm afraid that I would rather live the rest of my life in this one unreal moment, than face the pain of reality without you."

"That is a fear you will never have to carry in your spark, Lydia."

Hands slipped through her hair again, brushing the locks back from her face with tenderness, and she knew with sad certainty that this had to be a dream. Because her body was broken and in pain, her hair was mostly gone, burned away in the manic attempt to save Josh's life. In reality, it would have been impossible to flop over on her stomach like she was without mind-blowing agony, and her lips were little more that swollen pieces of torn tissue. They couldn't smile like she was. It was a dream. It had to be.

"If it's a dream, then let yourself enjoy it. Please, my Lydia, open your eyes and see me."

Slowly, timidly, she did as he asked, peering through a protective net of eyelashes. That one glance was enough to have her eyes flaring open. She was lying on his chest, but it wasn't the massive ten plus feet of warm metal that she knew and loved. He was how she would have imagined him as a human, how her mind's-eye would fashion him in flesh. His chest was broad but not massive, muscled more like an athletes than a bodybuilder. Scars criss-crossed that deeply tanned firm muscle, scars that depicted and told the tale of the many, many battles he'd endured.

His arms were the same, thick but not bulging. The hands that slipped through her hair were calloused, slightly rough, and bore their own fair share of lines and creases from scars. His hair was dark, dark brown but beginning to silver at the temples, his face squarish without being rugged, a couple of days worth of stubble along his chin and upper lip. But those eyes were the same, blue beyond reason and filled with intelligence and compassion in abundance. It all added together in a recipe of perfection to her mind. Hands and body roughened due to his duty, and yet tempered with tenderness in this moment.

Tempered and motivated by love. Like his laugh. Like this moment of warmth and peace.

She stared into his eyes, her chest filling with the warmth around her, warmth that swelled as she watched him take in her form. She was draped in yards of white satin, like something out of her ancestral home of Italy. He reclined on a chase of some kind, hands making their delicious, caressing way down her shoulders, over her back. Around them the liquid gold-like warmth shimmered and resolved itself to a paradise scene of old Rome. Fountains spilled silvery water into immaculately carved basins. Trees of all kinds spilled spring-green foliage across emerald grass. And flowers, her favorite flowers—carnations and lilies—dotted the countryside in bursts of unbelievable color.

The air was alive with spring, with life blossoming anew from the cold heart of winter.

And still his eyes roved her body in quiet awe, as if he could not get enough of her, afraid to look away without memorizing every breath she took. She had to wonder what his processors recorded, her heart yearning to see herself through his eyes. As if in response to that desire, her vision started to flash and blur. For the briefest of seconds, she saw herself as Cybertronian. Her frame was midnight blue with hints of silver metal beneath, and curved as if to fit his to perfection. Across her paint were little silver specs of light, like the stars in the heavens, and her optics burned a fiery passionate jade color.

It was only a moment, though, and she felt him pull her back into this portion of their shared dream.

"No," he said firmly but gently, his hands cupping her face. "Does it matter so much how we see each other physically? Or does it matter that we can _see_ each other for whom and what we truly are?"

She let herself reach out to him, her fingertips caressing his lips. He was as warm as she remembered, his lips oddly as strong and yet giving. He was still Ratchet, still the sum total of his life force no matter what substance made up his physical form. And she was still Lydia, still the woman that loved him beyond reason if only because of the sum of his total life. And he was right. It didn't matter that her mind played them out as human and his processors spun images of them as Cybertronians.

It mattered that they were together, and for this one blissful moment, they were without pain and creating a light so bright and warm as to chase away the personal shadows that haunted each when alone. They were glowing in each other's arms, a golden-white radiance enveloping them both until it blotted out all other images, all other thoughts.

"I love you," she whispered, slowly leaning forward until her lips were inches from his, her hands resting comfortably on his shoulders. "I think—no, I _know_—that I've loved you since the first moment we met. I've been too stubborn and prideful to admit it until now."

"A trait we share in common," he murmured with a devilish smile, slowly leaning upward.

She grinned impish when her lips were millimeters from his. She didn't need to share his thoughts to know what went on in those processors, what lurked behind that smile. "Well, that means the world is doomed, isn't it? Too stubborn souls like ourselves coming together as one. I don't think this planet can contain that."

The light that flashed through his optics sent shivers through her, made her pulse speed up and promised her hours of pleasures beyond imagining. "Not my concern at the moment, human," he grinned all the more at the laugh that brought from her mouth. "I've got more pressing matters to attend to."

"Like me?" she breathed against his lips, her tone almost innocent.

His answer was to take her in a soul-blending kiss, and all reason fled her. The golden liquid warmth of their surroundings rose up like a tidal wave, crashing down on them both and stealing the breath from her body. It blinded her again, this pleasure, cast her adrift. She cried out into his mouth, the sound having nothing to do with pain and everything to do with pleasure. He was everywhere again, surrounding her with the light, filling her until she thought she would fly apart at the seams. And still she begged for more, couldn't get enough of him.

Wanted… no, _needed_ to be consumed by him.

The pleasure built again and again, growing ever higher with each crashing wave. It built within her chest, a pressure against her heart that burned and pounded, demanding release. It bowed her back, stole any sound she could have made with her body. Instead, it transformed those sounds into the words of her heart and cast them to the ocean surrounding them.

And she heard him answer her call. She heard his thoughts, his pleading… and his fear.

Something was wrong, dangerously wrong.

She struggled against the sea of ecstasy, fighting until she found her body again, pouring herself back within her dream-flesh until she could feel him beneath her once again. "Ratchet?" His eyes were closed this time, his body rigid with barely contained control. It was as if he were fighting some war inside his body, something she could not see and did not know how to help. "Ratchet!"

"Can't," he gritted out from behind clenched teeth, the frantic words coming from the light and not from his lips. "Lydia, I am so sorry. I can't hold it back. I can't stop the bonding sequence. I don't… I didn't mean for this to happen... now... I don't know what will happen. You have a spark now, and I thought my control was stronger… I can't… don't want to force you to bond… I…"

She could feel him slamming emotional doors between them, shutting off her mind from his, trying with every once of his being to stop the sequence she could hear like a song in the back of her mind. Walls of metal and concrete rose around those doors, trying in vain to block her from him, from what he feared would be an unwanted mating. But it was more than that, she realized. He wanted to protect her from himself, from the eons of pain and loneliness that would surely come pouring across that bond once it was in place.

He feared for her life, her fragile state in her injury. And he feared so desperately that they both would die in the process of trying to bond. His death he was prepared to handle, but hers? He wasn't going to risk it, not for the world. And yet, if he tried to stop now, something horrible was going to happen. She just knew it.

Spiral's voice came back into her thoughts again, echoing across time from that wicked poker game like a prophecy about to be fulfilled. _Love him. That word needs to stay present tense, for your sake as much as for his._

The light between them grew brighter, the pressure in her chest nearly doubling. She stared down… and into the light of the spark within her heart. She felt her own fear wash away. "I have a spark," she whispered, and then gave him a lop-sided grin. "Ratchet, I have a spark in me, and it's mine. I'm not just a carrying case like Nova said. I have a spark in me, and it wants to be with you."

It was her hands that caressed his face this time, slipped into his hair. The gentlest of kisses she placed on his lips. "Ratchet, I love you. Just let go," she said tenderly, remembering that wonderful advice from the woman she regretted never getting to know. _Janet, I owe you so much for this. I wish I could tell you just how much._ "Just let go. Don't try to puzzle it all out. Don't try to make it fit with the life you remember. Just enjoy the fact that we are here. Just… for once, let go."

He did, and the lights between them—the light emanating from their sparks—became one and swallowed them whole.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Lydia was laying in his hands when she opened her eyes again. The pain that she had feared was there, her lips still cracked and swollen, her chest feeling like it had been cut open and her insides ripped out. Her arm hurt just to think about, and her head felt as if someone had remodeled the inside of her skull with a sledgehammer. It was all muted, of course. Ratchet had ensured that she was filled with the maximum safe dosage of the best drugs the pain-killer world had to offer. But that couldn't completely erase the throbbing agnony. She winced, and couldn't help it. But she also smiled, too. Another thing she couldn't help but do.

"Was it real?" she asked, looking up into his optics.

What she saw there, reflecting back at her, was answer enough. What she felt in her spark, and heard in her mind, drown out the pain far better than any narcotic ever invented.

"As real as you want it to be," He replied, mouth plates curving in a slight smile.

She tried not to smile more, and couldn't stop herself. "My nephew is going to be pissed. So is Arcee and Grimlock and everyone else, for that matter."

That earned her a raised eyebrow plate. "What for?"

"Human customs require an engagement ring, an engagement party, a bridal shower, a wedding rehearsal, a rehearsal dinner, a huge white dress and a wedding ceremony before two can be considered mated."

Ratchet rolled his optics, snorting at the thought. Though he knew she could see right through that action now. And he felt her delight echo across his spark. "I highly doubt that your catering companies supply energon-flavored meals, nor have a chapel large enough to accommodate Autobot guests. And why you humans put so much stock in planning for a ceremony that lasts less than a fraction of that prep time is beyond my processors to calculate."

He slid off the recharge berth, carrying her carefully back to the human-sized hospital bed.

"Don't you Autobots have mating rituals?" she asked.

"Yes, and we just completed ours."

It was her turn to lift an eyebrow, that lopsided grin he so loved appearing on her lips. "You don't have family near, nor have parties to celebrate the joining?"

He watched her settle herself back against the sheets, and the smile that tugged at his lip plates threatening to banish his gruff countenance once more. Mated. They were safely mated now, their sparks thrumming as one. He didn't need a scan to tell him that, nor to ask to know that she understood that too. The elation that poured from her spark into his was more than enough confirmation.

"Family, yes," he continued, acting as though they were discussing simple calculations and not a sacred custom. "We have meetings of families to discuss the status of the mating, if the two involved are doing so out of a pure intent to bond, and whether both clans will accept the union."

"Hrm," She watched as he attached the various monitoring devices to her again. "Well, by that definition, we need to sit down and have a talk with Arcee, Wheeljack, and Grimlock."

He stopped what he was doing, staring down at her. He did not like where this was going, and eyed his new sparkmate warily. "Why?"

Lydia managed to give him her best innocent expression, nearly blowing it at the tickles of suspicion echoing back at her from him. "Because the only family I have left is my nephew in California. And I think of Arcee as a sister and Wheeljack like a crazy comforting uncle. And Grimlock is like an overprotective dad at times," she paused at that, and a mischievous light glowed in her eyes. "You know, according to human customs, you would need to ask Grimlock's permission to marry me."

He stared at her with wide blue optics.

Just. Stared.

And she felt it when comprehension filtered its way into his primary processor. She couldn't help the laughter that bubbled past her lips when the cursing began and the first wrench slammed into the wall.


	26. Chapter 26 Arrival: Part 2

A/N: This chapter is definitely for all the Sam and MiKaela, and the Sarah Lennox fans out there. I have been informed by many that I have left these three speical folks out of the story long enough. Going back and reviewing my notes for past and future chapters (as this fic continues to run on and on! YAY!), I did realize that I had planned to use them beforehand. However, as with the nature of all evolving stories, they kept getting pushed aside. I hope you all enjoy the way they have shown up. A special shout out is to be given to Lord Destroyer way back in a review for the first chapter of this story. :) Lord Destroyer figured it out way back then that Trent and Lydia shared the same last name. Te he. Many kudo points to you!

Another set of Kudos goes out to everyone that has written a Sarah Lennox story, or has even included her in some small part. You all have taken a very minor character and turned her into a force in and of herself. I love you all for doing that. This chapter is dedicated to all of you. I couldn't have figured out how to write her without the groundwork you all have put down in words. So I guess this is my way of saying that the characterization of Sarah Lennox isn't fully mine. What I wrote is an homage to all of you who have given her life. :D

I apologize for not updating with my usual speed. I have caught the seasonal flu, unfortunately, and my brain exists in a thick fog of sick. No amount of pleading to Ratchet to fix me will help, and every time I sneeze, my poor kitties run for cover. ::Cries:: This took me so much longer than usual to write because of that.

As always, I thank you all very truly and deeply for the reviews, private messages, alerts, and making this story a favorite. These things keep me going at times like this when I am sick and the suggetions keep the story fresh! I love that so much. Thank you thank you thank you thank you! :D

Disclaimer remains the same: I do not own anything save my OC, etc.. etc... etc...

* * *

The plane touched down on the main Diego Garcia runway, a huge behemoth of a metal beast. On any normal runway, the Boeing C-17 III Globemaster would have caused varied reactions ranging from shock to horror to flat out morbid curiously. Or it would have until the weight of the thing broke through the runway asphalt and the plane came grinding to a halt. Or worse. On a military installation like Diego Garcia, however, the military carrier landing with near-gentle ease was as common as the seeing the average Ford Focus or Mitsubishi Lancer on the highway.

It was the cargo that made this particular carrier of great interest.

Bumblebee had commed ahead with a rather unusual message. He had said that he was bringing Sam and Mikaela to the base, and that Sam had a very important message to deliver. So important that whatever it was, it could not be said over open channels. Even channels as secure as the internal Autobot frequencies. That was more than enough to have the entire base raising their alert level from peace to all-hell-is-about-to-break-loose. However, Bee had been kind enough to relay one other bit of crucial information.

That they had stopped along the way to pick up one Sarah Lennox and her daughter, Annabelle. Only Ironhide found that as a cause for slight celebration. Everyone else, having heard the rumors of just how intimidating the wife of Major Lennox could be, were finding reasons to either be near a firearm, or to be far away from the infirmary. A few of the more experienced officers had gone far enough to request leave for the next couple of days. One man had been heard stating that if his leave wasn't granted, he'd just walk into the ocean and start swimming towards the nearest bit of dry land.

Drowning at sea or becoming lunch for its various carnivorous denizens was much preferred to being caught in the path of that woman. Especially where her husband was concerned.

In order to prevent many a premature burial at sea, Epps and Optimus had ordered all departing traffic to the west airfield, saving the primary one for the arriving planes. Because, much to their combined annoyance, the information from their counterpart stations in both New Jersey and at Edwards Air Force Base had confirmed incoming contact for a separate plane each. Considering that Bee had gone out of his way to state that their flight had left New Jersey and had Sarah Lennox with them, it could only mean another shipment of government delegates or liaisons in the other.

And, as fate would have it, both planes were set to touch down one after the other.

"This is not my day," Epps muttered, crossing his massive ebony arms over his chest. He hadn't bothered to remove his sunglasses… or the gun at his side. "First the meeting from hell with Director Keller and now this."

Optimus nodded, coming to stand next to his human ally and part-time counterpart. "That is a sentiment I can fully understand," he rumbled, the normally regal baritone coming from his vocal processor carrying a hard edge to it.

It was a tone Epps had only heard once from the Autobot leader, and that was during the events in Egypt. No one had been at their proverbial best—temperament wise that is—on that day of all days. First loosing Optimus and then Sam, only to have them both come back to life with that magical fairy dust or whatever it was the kid had said was so important. Not that Epps doubted the power in that dust now. It was hard to doubt what you saw with your own eyes. However, he was leery of the kid and anything connected to him since watching those events.

He wasn't leery of Optimus, though, and he couldn't help that double standard. No human knew what the Cybertronians were truly capable of, or if they could ever truly die without being beheaded. And even that was dubious in his point of view. What he did know, and figured that he knew very well over most others of his species, was that a dead human was a dead human. It was his job to cause a lot of those deaths in the name of defending his country's freedom, so he also knew with absolute certainty when someone was beyond saving.

Sam had been beyond saving after Megatron had blasted him in those surreal desert sands. The concussive force alone from that weapon should have turned the boy's internal organs into soup. But somehow the kid had survived, and somehow, aside from superficial burns and cuts and the like, Sam was perfectly fine.

It was hard for him to swallow, that bit of knowledge. And more than a few members of the team felt the same way.

As much as it bugged him to admit it, he was very glad that the boy had decided to go back to his college and reject the offer from Lennox to join NEST. Sam had bravery and balls and brains in spades, but what he didn't have was the trust of many of the human elements after watching that resurrection. The rumors floating around that the boy had transformer glyphs running about behind his eyes didn't help either. It was a fact that most of them hid from the Autobots, and Optimus especially, though he pretty much figured that the bot knew. So long as they didn't vocalize that unease, he was fairly certain that Optimus would likewise keep his own opinion to himself.

He drew his mind back to the present when the first flashes of silver appeared on the afternoon horizon. He kept his eyes on the approaching plane. "How long are you going to keep Wheeljack in the brig?"

If the bot had had teeth to grind, Epps was certain he would have heard it. "As long as it takes."

Epps flicked a glance upward, eyebrows drawing together behind his dark lenses. "You aren't seriously going to try him for that stint with Banachek, are you? Almost everyone in that room was ready to draw down on that asshole."

"Ready to draw down, as you put it, and actually committing the action are two different things," Optimus replied, optics trained on the encroaching plane. "Very strict rules were given to each and every Autobot arriving here under my command. He broke one of the most severe."

Epps pursed his lips. "Man, I don't think he would have done it. He's like Ratchet, you know. All heart and lots of bluster and ability, but I think he cares too much for the lives around him to do something like that. He's an inventor, and inventor's don't destroy stuff. They create it."

The moment he said the words, he almost choked on them as he recalled Wheeljack's last attempt to refine the mining drill for the coming asteroid project. Yes, while it was true that the 'mad scientist' as most humans called him behind his back, had been honestly and innocently attempting to modify his drill, the result of those modifications had been a sonic blast that had toppled two buildings and somehow turned the hair of anyone within thirty feet of ground zero florescent orange.

Not even Wheeljack could explain why that had happened. And the twins (both minor and major) had been horribly offended that they hadn't thought of it first. For the next two days those unfortunate soldiers—all happening to belong to the same unit—had been unmercifully called Team Carrot Top until they gave up and shaved their heads. Prowl had personally threatened to slag the twins (either set or both) if they so much as blinked an optic towards repeating that incident. A new rule had been added in regards to human hair coloring and how Cybertronians, who lacked hair at all, should not have anything to do with it.

Wheeljack meant well, he had to admit with a wry smile. Though if having an imagination and the skills to bring those imaginings to life was a crime, he'd have to brig about seventy-five percent of the world's human population.

"I would like to believe that myself," Optimus answered, hiding how the human's words had touched him. Somehow the male had managed to describe both Ratchet and Wheeljack perfectly without realizing it. "However, these events we now find ourselves dealing with are not common."

Epps nodded. "You mean Lydia and what was done to her." It was not a question.

"Yes."

Both fell silent, contemplating the future. The future of Lydia, the future of Wheeljack, and the future of them all as the first of the planes made their landing.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When the cargo bay doors opened, Bumblebee all but floored his accelerator and blasted down the ramp at velocities approaching light speed. Being the second plane to touch down, their flight had been forced to circle the runway a few times, giving the first the chance to unload its cargo. That hadn't gone over well with one of the occupants of said second flight. Sarah Lennox had resumed her pacing, her eyes blazing with her anger. So much so that Bumblebee worried that the femme would suddenly sprout eye lazers and burn a hole through the hull of the plane, or would wear the deck plating down to tissue paper with her pacing.

Not being one to be overly careless, he had motioned Sam and Mikaela over to him, transformed, and secured them within his alt mode. If they were to fall out of the plane due to Sarah manifesting omnipotent powers, he was reasonably certain they would land in the water and thusly remain mostly safe. He could seal his form to air-tight with lightning speed. He was fairly certain that Sarah Lennox, in her current state, would manifest wings of pure fury and simply soar down to the landing strip if needed. He wasn't about to put anything past that femme, especially given her current mood.

It was hard to tell if the two human passengers inside his cab were screaming in fear for their lives at his hands, or at the hands of whatever lay behind them. Mikaela's muted screeching could be loosely translated in to the word 'drive!' and was repeated over and over again. Sam's vocalization wasn't much better, though instead of 'drive' the repetition of 'faster!' mingled with her utterance.

Bumblebee, the ever loyal friend (and rather smart bot as well) eagerly applied both bits of council. Homing in on Optimus's signal, he had had every intention of running for his spark until he was safely behind said mech. It was the fact that he picked up on Ironhide, Ultra Magnus and a cadre of humans as well that had him laying on the breaks. That couldn't be good. The yellow camero with its gorgeous black custom racing stripes squealed his tires on the pavement, filling the air with the scent of burnt rubber as he valiantly attempted to stop and slide away from his intended target.

He barely managed that, nearly rolling his alt form in the process.

"'BEE!" Sam screamed, yanking on the steering wheel out of reflex, knowing it wouldn't do a bit of good.

"SAM!" MiKaela yelled, hands braced on the roof and the dash.

With no little amount of luck, Bumblebee gained control of the skid, ending up facing the collection of mechs and humans… and the two human males that had captured everyone's interest, apparently. 'Bee did an immediate scan of his passengers, making certain no one was harmed in any major way, and then sent his scans outward. What he picked up nearly made his spark flutter with surprise. Door locks engaged instantly. Neither human seemed to notice, thankfully.

"Sam," Mikaela asked after taking the time to peel her fingers from 'Bee's interior. Her voice was a touch breathy, her blue eyes wide still. "Sam, you okay?"

Sam swallowed hard. "Uh, aside from feeling like my heart just bounced off the roof of my mouth, I think I'm good," he wiped a hand across his face, trying to still the shaking in his limbs. He huffed out a little laugh. "You'd think, with everything we've been through, that it would be impossible for anything to scare me anymore."

"Rest. Close your eyes and dream," sang the radio, chopping up bits of a song to make the statement.

Both Sam and Mikaela stared at the radio as if they were staring hard into 'Bee's optics. "After that, not likely," Mikaela muttered darkly, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I agree," Sam admitted, he reached for the door handle and finding it locked, pulled on the locking mechanism. It didn't budge. At all. Even slightly. "'Bee?"

"Close your eyes and dream," the radio continued, and Sam could swear that the words sounded strained, almost too insistent.

"'Bee?" Sam asked again, peering through the windshield. So far all he could see were his friends surrounding some poor older guy on crutches and some younger guy gaping up at the mechs in shock. Though he couldn't see their faces too clearly. "What gives, 'Bee? We're here, and we're away from Mrs. Lennox. I think it's safe to let us out. Regardless of whom she's married to, I don't think the entire base would let her kill us to get to her husband."

Mikaela leaned forward, squinting out of the windshield at the collected group. "There's something familiar about that guy…" and then her eyes widened, her mouth falling open in an 'O' of astonishment. "It can't be, can it?"

"What?" Sam growled, only half paying attention as he tried in vain to get his seatbelt to unlatch. "Who?"

"It's Trent," Mikaela slumped back against the leather seat, eyes transfixed with an expression of stunned realization. "Sam, it's Trent DeMarco. Here. On Diego Garcia. With us."

Bumblebee made a mournful sound and seemed to sag on his axels. The doors and seatbelts released all on their own.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Unbelievable," Sam muttered, walking towards the assembled humans and Autobots, Bumblebee in his bi-pedal form and Mikaela following behind.

The entire knot of sentients appeared centered around Trent DeMarco and the older man on crutches. And yet as they approached, Sam realized that this man wasn't a civilian by any stretch of the imagination. Command poured off of him as easily as it poured from Lennox or Optimus. He was a man that was used to barking an order and having half the room jumping to obey and the other half waiting for the next request. Though anything that came from that man's mouth probably wasn't a request in any form, no matter how he phrased it.

"You had no right, Captain Eddard," Epps pointed out, arms loose at his sides as if waiting for the man in question to do something stupid. "You may outrank me out in the field, but right now I am supreme authority on this base."

"I had every right," Eddard replied smoothly, eyes glittering like chips of granite. "And you presented me with the protocol yourself."

Epps whipped off his sunglasses, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Come again?"

"You put in the request to have Lennox's next of kin flown out to this base," Eddard explained, his own hands locked with a white-knuckled grip on the handles of his crutches. "Should Lieutenant Commander DeMarco be afforded any less? She was wounded far more grievously than the Major, and may not ever fully recover. She deserves to have her only living relative at her side just in case this is the last day she will ever breathe."

"Be that as it may," Epps began. "And trust me, I'm not unsympathetic to the Lieutenant Commander and her situation, but the main difference between Mrs. Lennox and Mr. DeMarco over here is that Mrs. Lennox has security clearance for this base. He doesn't."

"I have escort privileges on every base I set foot on," Eddard maintained. "My vouching for him is good enough."

"Not on this base, it isn't," Ironhide threatened, his favorite cannon whirling but not charging. The look of sheer malice that Eddard sent the weapon's specialist nearly changed that. "You want a piece of me? Come for it, human."

"Ironhide's right," Epps asserted, drawing the man's attention back to him. "I doubt very much you could walk this kid up to any top secret installation and let him loose alone. So what makes you think you can do it to mine?"

Eddard had the gall to look smug. "What is done, is done. Trent knows. And I have it on good authority that he's soon to be Private First Class DeMarco. Trust me, he'll more than pass your background and security clearance with flying colors."

"Captain Eddard is correct," Optimus interjected, though his tone was far from peaceable. The giant mech looked as eager for a fight as Ironhide, but wisely kept his weapons from sight. "What is done is done. However, there will be severe consequences for this infraction, make no mistake. Let the boy visit with his Aunt if Ratchet clears it."

"Not without escort," Epps argued, eyes locked on Joshua. "Graham, assign armed escorts to Captain Eddard and Mr. DeMarco for the entirety of their stay. I don't care what Ratchet says about live weapons in his medbay, these two go nowhere without their escorts. And if Captain Eddard gives you any grief at all about this, brig him. Period. He's just forfited his ability to move about as he pleases on my base. Is that understood?"

Eddard's face took on a purplish color of rage, and he looked as if he was about to press the point already. It was Trent that surprised them by laying a hand on Eddard's shoulder. "No, that's fine," he said, voice and eyes tight with a trace of pain. "I just want to see my Aunt Lydia. I'll do as you say so long as I get to see her before she d—" he cleared his throat. "Before, uh, the worst happens."

"At last, a voice of reason," snapped a very irritated and very dangerous female voice.

Everyone turned in unison towards a lovely blond woman with a golden-haired toddler child slung on one hip and a diaper bag slug over the opposite shoulder. Garbed in faded jeans, white sneakers, and a light sweater in a soft buttercup yellow, she looked the perfect image of the army wife out for a daily trip to the park. Until you looked into her eyes. Somehow the woman managed to look more threatening than Barricade, regardless of the fact that she carried a child and a bag full of toys and various plastic things rather than a plasma cannon. Even Optimus found himself taking a step backwards as Sarah crossed into the middle of the group.

"You should be ashamed of yourselves, all of you," she challenged, voice simmering with rage. "Two lives lay in critical condition—two people who may very well loose their lives before they get to see their loved ones—and you all are standing around arguing semantics."

"Ma'am," SASF Agent Graham offered softly. "A matter of security isn't—"

"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt that you are new to this base," Sarah dropped the diaper bag from her shoulder, her voice perilously calm as she shifting Annabelle to her other hip. Making it easier to pin the man with an ominous stare. "And you don't know who I am or what I am capable of when I think someone I care about is hurt. I am Sarah Lennox, and I don't need military protocol or years of training to see when a bunch of men and mechs are acting like squabbling children."

"You," Sarah continued sternly, jabbing a finger at Eddard. "You know better. You are a Captain, for crying out loud. You are far above pulling this kind of backhanded crap to get your own agenda pushed forward. Throwing your rank aroud? Using family members of the wounded to play power games? That's low. That's seriously and unbelievably low."

"And you," she rounded on Ironhide, and much to the horror of those assembled, the big mech flinched. "You know better than any sentient on this base than to point those cannons at anyone unless you intend to use them. Put them away right this minute. Now is anyone else going to argue with me, or can this young man go and see his aunt, and can I go see my husband? You also might want to say hello to Sam and Mikaela over there hiding behind Bumblebee and Optimus. Manners never hurt anyone."

With that, Sarah picked up her diaper bag and headed towards the waiting military transport. Annabelle started to kick and fuss, looking over her mother's shoulder at the assembled crew. Wisely, she had kept quiet while her mother had used her 'strict' voice. "Momma, want 'Hide!" she sniffled, flinging out one tiny arm towards the weapon's expert. "Want to ride in 'Hide. Momma, put me down. 'Hide!"

"Ironhide can't play with you right now," Sarah soothed, never breaking her stride.

Annabelle scrunched up her tiny doll's face in a frown. "Why not? Has 'Hide been bad?"

"Yes, honey. Ironhide wasn't playing nice with others. He's grounded from playing with you until he apologizes for being mean and inconsiderate."

That explanation seemed to make sense to the toddler and she stopped struggling, nodding sagely at her mother. "Should always play nice with others," and then she turned and called at the top of her lungs. "'Pologize, 'Hide, please? Before I have to go home?"

~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam, Mikaela and Trent stood and stared at each other from over trays of food in the mess hall. The entire scene was eerie, almost like transporting the three back in time to where they stood in the cafeteria of their high school. More than that, uncomfortable flashbacks of their last year together in said high school flickered in Sam's mind. He and Mikaela had managed to keep their relationship a secret through the last half of their junior year and over that summer. Neither had been in any shape to attend prom that year, as it occurred so soon after the events at Mission City. And then it was summer break before they knew it. Those months had passed in the lazy bliss of the truly young, their last summer as kids, they had joked.

After spending that summer together as boyfriend and girlfriend, it was impossible to hide their feelings for each other as senior year approached. The first three months had been hell for them both. Her friends couldn't believe she had dropped the star of the football team for the nerd. His friends resented the fact that he had somehow landed the hottest girl in school and refused to tell them how he had done it. Three years later and Miles _still_ wasn't speaking to him because of that.

And then, of course, there was Trent.

And the massive fight that had taken place during the fourth month of their senior year, which had ruined both of their perfect attendance records. Because the principal had gone so far as to make an example of the incident and suspend them both for a week as part of his "zero tolerance" policy for school fighting. Both had lost scholarship offers because of that. It wasn't enough to kill either's hopes of making into a good college, but it was enough to drive home the point. They would have to stay far away from each other if they wanted a secure future. It became an unspoken rule that when one entered the room, the other left.

The rest of their peers had taken that as some sort of sign of respect between each other, and as a side effect, no one had bothered to pick on Sam the rest of that year. Not to mention the fact that those who had witnessed the fight had seen a side of Sam no one thought possible. The boy may have been whip-thin and quick, but he was vicious and fought hard. No one could honestly predict who would have won that fight had it not been interrupted by the administrators. Trent had had the muscle and endurance. Sam the speed and reflexes.

No one wanted to try to take on either after that demonstration, and so life had flowed into a kind of peaceful avoidance.

Until now.

_This is so stupid_, Sam thought, fighting not to let the annoyance show on his face. _We're adults now. This high school bullshit is long behind us. Just talk to the man. Be the first to make the peace. What's the worst that could happen, him flinging his tray in my face? Not like he's retarded enough to start something with an armed escort at his back… right?_

"Hey," he began.

Trent stared at him a long moment, and Sam could see the many reactions flickering through those light-colored eyes. There was anger, he noted, a long simmering grudge that lingered in the air like a sour and brittle wind. But there were many other things that swirled in those orbs, and not all of them unkind. And when Trent flicked his gaze over Sam's shoulder to Mikaela, he had expected to see frosty arrogance fill his stare like on their graduation day. Instead, he simply acknowledged her, though not quite with a friendly look, and returned his attention to Sam.

"Hey," he replied.

Sam let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Crazy, isn't it? This place and the Autobots."

Trent shrugged his massive shoulders. Somehow the built football playing boy and turned into a honed, muscled brick house of a man. "Guess so."

Mikaela nodded, licking her lips and trying a slight smile. "It took us a while to get used to, too. Join us for lunch?" She motioned to one of the unoccupied tables.

Again, Trent shrugged, glancing over his shoulder at his armed escort. The guard, one bull of a man named Sergeant Longworth if Sam remembered correctly, nodded once. The three made their way towards the indicated table, taking their seats with Mikaela to Sam's right and Trent across from him. Immediately Trent began shoveling in the military food, though it was clear that he wasn't interested in it and barely tasted the substances that crossed his tongue.

"I'm sorry about your Aunt," Mikaela said quietly. "I remember meeting her once. She's a lovely woman, and I'm sure Ratchet is going to take good care of her."

Trent's hand twitched slightly on the fork, scattering bits of … whatever the red stuff was. Sam hoped it was reconstituted bell pepper, but wasn't entirely sure. "Thanks."

Silence lapsed into place as the three pushed their food around their plates.

"What college you get into?" Sam tried again.

"Berkeley."

"Nice. Football scholarship?"

Trent nodded. "Full ride. You?"

"Princeton. Science scholarship. Full ride."

"Nice. Always was the smartest kid in school."

That one complement somehow cut the tension between them, and Sam let himself relax a bit. Not completely, as it was obvious that Trent was completely ignoring Mikaela when he could get away with it. He was polite enough, and answered her questions, but only with one word answers.

Sam nodded, accepting the complement for the peace offering it was. "Always envied the way you could throw the ball. Not to mention the kick-ass truck with the 22" rims. You still have that monster?"

A ghost of a smile tugged at Trent's mouth, thawed some of the cool distance in his eyes. "Yeah, still runs like a dream, too. It was gift from Aunt Lydia. She's got this thing for cars. Drives a 1964 Porsche 911."

Sam whistled low, shaking his head in appreciation. "She ever let you drive it?"

"Once. After graduation."

"Nice."

"Yeah," Trent sighed silently, face falling into tired lines of worry that Sam knew all too well. "Look, I'm sorry for all the shit back in the day, okay? It was so important when it happened, but looking back on it now? It was stupid."

He wasn't expecting Trent to say that, and hoped that it was a sincere statement and not something brought on by the shock of seeing the Autobots for the first time. It would have been a perfect moment if Trent would have included Mikaela in that statement. "It's fine, man," he replied with a nod. "Water under the bridge and all that. You, uh, know how long you are going to be here?"

"No. You?"

Sam shrugged, not certain how much he should say. The man did meet Optimus Prime, though... "Have to deliver a message to Optimus and Bumblebee needs to check in with Ratchet. Other than that, I guess we can leave whenever."

Trent considered that a moment. "So you aren't here like I am, to visit a wounded family member."

Sam met the man's stare. "No."

Again, Trent seemed to consider that a long moment, and took another bite of the food on his tray. "Okay. I suppose I'll figure that out when I'm stationed here."

Sam nearly dropped his fork and Mikaela gasped. "What?"

Trent gave that little bit of a smile again. "Josh told me as much. If I wanted to see my Aunt before she di—"he swallowed hard, fighting a moment for control. "Before she died, then I was going to forfeit my choice of assignments once I hit active duty. Once you know the secret, that is where they put you. Mostly to keep an eye on you, I guess. But that doesn't matter to me. One station is as good as another."

"You'd give up your freedom like that?" Mikaela asked. "I thought your freedom was the most important thing to you. At least, that's what you used to say." _Which is why you constantly cheated on me when we were together in high school_, she added to herself.

Trent pinned her with a glower that instantly set Sam's teeth on edge. He was honestly expecting the big man to reach over and slap her, there was _that_ much hurt in his eyes. But later, when he thought the situation through, he realized he shouldn't have thought that badly of him. Trent just shook his head sadly and picked up his tray.

"Is there anything in this world more important than family?"

With that, he left them to their thoughts.


	27. Chapter 27 Friendship

A/N: I wanted to thank everyone for their well-wishes and kind thoughts (and the loving reviews! WOOT! Almost to 400, you all are so awesome!) while I have suffered through the seasonal plague. Being sick is always horrible, but made so much worse when it prevents you from being able to do the things you normally love. Like, for instance, writing. I thought (key word being THOUGHT) I had written something so wonderful and that would please all the readers at once. In my delirious state, I thought I had found a way to writer's nirvana and was on my way to winning the Nobel Prize or something. Such is the dangers of trying to write under the influence of the flu. O:-)

When I got all better and reviewed what I had written... yeah, I think I cried a lot. It was horrible and I had to redo all of it. Hence my delay in posting this chapter. But to make up for that, it's longer chapter that normal. :)

Shoutout to the incomparable Hummergrey for the idea about the flowers. It was too perfect not to use. :D

I also feel the need to apologize to all the fans of this story I have lost due to the mating of Ratchet and Lydia. All I can say about that is that I try to write this story in such a way that people can ignore the parts that pertain to romance and enjoy the rest without loosing too much. For those that don't like it, all I can do is shrug and point to my other fics if you are a fan of my writing but don't like the romance side. The story flows as it will and characters will do what they want to do, despite my best laid plans to the contrary. Thank you to those who have been kind in pointing out their dislike. And to those that have been less than kind, thank you for doing it in private messages and not in my reviews. I enjoy constructive critism in reviews just like anyone else. Flames do nothing more than tear apart the person that sent them and the person receiving them. That is all I can say about that.

Otherwise, enjoy the unfolding story as this rollercoaster approaches its next big loop. On a brighter note, I have found a new beta! ::happy dance:: Razorgaze has been so kind as to take over the insanity that is me and my many TF fics. ::gives massive hugs and promises to try to not be too difficult:: This shall be my last chapter without a beta reader to knock me over the head and tell me where I have made huge mistakes. Please bear with me on this one. I take full responsibility for all the errors.

Disclaimer: I don't own transformers, etc (save for my OCs)... please don't sue.

* * *

It was an odd place to find him, Maggie had to admit. Of all the places she had searched—his office, the command hangar, the Autobot's personal hangar, the communications room—the runway was truly the last place she would have thought to find the Autobot second-in-command. But there he stood, staring up at the early morning sky.

Shadows cloaked his gigantic frame, melting away the unique characteristics of his paint and softening the edges of his armor. She only identified him as the mech she sought by the distinctive shape of his door-wings, the way he always held them aloft with straight precision. Still, she found herself staring with wide eyes and an open mouth at the sheer height of the male. Though she had been taught that he wasn't considered overly tall by his own race, the thirteen to fifteen feet of height marked him as someone to definitely gape at. In her mind, any sentient life form over eight feet in height was worth staring at a time or twelve.

Even if there were other factors to make him worthy of gawking at other than his height. Factors, like, say his recent show of temper?

Maggie gripped the folders close to her chest, her arms wrapped around them as she screwed up her courage. She had been loathed to approach Prowl since the big blowout days ago during the briefing with General Morshower. Though not out of any real sense of trepidation, really. Her hesitation had to do with things inside herself, or more to the point, the things within herself that stirred to life by his sudden outburst. Something in the words he had spoken, or probably the way he had said them, struck a cord with her. Most of the people that had witnessed the outburst from the normally logical and cool-to-the-point-of-being-assholic bot had been too busy fearing for their lives after his demonstration to notice exactly what he had said.

Many gave him a wider berth than was necessary when passing him in the hangar because of that.

Surprisingly, Maggie hadn't felt fear. She had felt true horror and utter sorrow for what he had had to endure because of this war, unlike some of her less astute comrades. Her eyes traveled down to her bandaged right hand and she winced hard. Private First Class Gabriel Wegman was now sporting a rather flashy black eye and a fat lip for mistaking Prowl's name for "Prick" in front of her. It was stupid, she knew. So stupid to start a fight with some idiotic red-neck jerk simply because he didn't like Prowl on a good day. But she couldn't have helped her reaction even if she'd tried, and there was no part of her that had wanted to at the time.

Wegman was nearly twice as tall as she and carried three times her mass. And still she had managed to lay the guy out… and nearly shatter every bone in her hand in the process. She was lucky she wasn't dead at his hands, or in the brig next to Wheeljack for her action. Or, even worse, on a plane heading straight home, fired for conduct unbecoming of a Director's aide. Not for the first time in their working relationship had Director Keller promised her stern words later, after the current crises was behind them. For now, he needed her…

… and he needed her to talk to Prowl.

She swallowed hard, hoped her face wasn't as bright red with shame as it felt, and started across the runway. "Uh, Autobot Prowl?"

The mech gave no indication that he had heard her. For his part, he continued to stare up at the sky. Maggie's face drew down into lines of tight concern, all other thoughts forgotten. She'd heard stories about how his logic glitch could put him into stasis lock without warning. Maybe something had triggered it? Left him like some kind of giant statute to stare up at the stars? She reached for her phone—

"I find myself in contemplation."

His words startled her so much she nearly dropped the device. Was he expecting some kind of response from her, or was that a completely rhetorical question? She decided to go with the middle ground on that. "Uh, I'm sorry?"

Prowl looked down at her, the light in his optics like dim sapphire stars of his very own. His face was nearly regal, she realized, the silvery planes and angles of his plates sculpted as if from the hands of a master metalworker. Like the face of some great god staring down at her from times forgotten. And yet that face was creased somehow, crisscrossed with lines of worry and sorrow that no human visage would ever duplicate. She knew in that moment exactly why she had struck Wegman, and and the same time why many could mistake Prowl's attitude as arrogant and prickish.

His personality wasn't so distant because he disliked humans. He was distant because of things he disliked within himself. And calling him names was like picking on a kid in the schoolyard to her way of thinking. It was wrong. Just plain wrong.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, this time without the confusion. "I'll leave you to your contemplations. I just… I wanted to say that I'm sorry. Sorry for the attitudes of some of the humans on this base towards you. Everyone says that war is hell for everyone involved, but I can't imagine how much worse it's been for you. I'm truly sorry, Prowl."

The glow of his optics seemed to intensify so much that it nearly drown out the light of the stars. But only for the briefest of moments. And then he rapidly turned his gaze back to the sky. Maggie nodded to herself, figuring that was some sort of dismissal. Maybe she had said too much, presumed too much, and had offended him in some way. She turned away to head back to the waiting jeep that had brought her to the runway, kicking herself the entire time. Director Keller had warned her time and again to 'get a handle on that brain-mouth thing' or she would find herself in more trouble than she would like. Maybe today was that day.

"Once, I spoke with another mech who stood here in much the same way, a mech I have the greatest of respect towards," Prowl stated, causing her to pause and turn back to him. "He spoke words that, at the time, I believed were flippant and amusing."

The relief that washed through her was nearly palpable. She hadn't stepped wrong with the mech that was quickly becoming her favorite. Maggie walked back over to him swiftly, cranking her neck to keep his face in sight. "What did he say, if I may ask?"

The tips of Prowl's lip plates turned up in a slight smile. "That 'An old mech can still have a surprise or two in his arsenal.' Until this moment, I had perceived those words as pertaining to him, only. Now, now I think I understand what he meant."

She nodded, trying to understand. Or to at least provide some kind of comfort. "We rarely appreciate the words of those around us until they blindside us out of the blue. Usually after we have done something either contrary to or exactly copying them. We humans have a saying that I think applies to almost every sentient. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty."

He glanced back at her again, optic plates drawn down in a slight frown of confusion. She watched his optics dim again, realizing that that meant his attention was split with something else. Like watching the power input and output of a system when multiple tasks were performed. It almost made her grin to compare him to anything as backward as their brightest and best computer system. She doubted if he'd find as much humor in it as she.

Prowl's optics brightened again. "Ah," he said, nodding in understanding, that bit of a smile back on his lip plates. "I have researched the phrase, and I agree it is surprisingly accurate."

Maggie laughed. "So you understand why that is almost as much a curse as it is an explanation."

"Indeed. And thank you."

She raised both eyebrows. "For what?"

"For not being afraid of me. Out of everyone and everybot in that room, you were the only one that did not show fear of any kind."

This time, she truly smiled. "I may be way off base here, but I don't think it's in your programming to impose fear. Even to organics like me that can't help but fear their own shadow."

His head tipped to the side. "What brings you to that conclusion?"

Maggie looked down for a second, licking her lips. Hoping this wasn't a bad 'brain-mouth' moment. "This might just be personal conjecture talking, but, every action I have seen you take has been in defense. When you went off on Banachek, it was in defense of those people with the implants. People who didn't have a choice in their situations, like Lieutenant Commander DeMarco. I saw that it hurt you to know that others have suffered as a result of your race. Regardless of the fact that you—personally—did not cause the harm, you take full responsibility for it. That does not speak to a warrior nature. Like the police disguise you have assumed, it speaks volumes of your need to protect. You aren't just hiding as a cop. You really and truly believe in the laws you enforce. Otherwise it would have been Banachek flattened and not just a chunk of the platform."

He stared down at this human once more, struck to his spark by her words. "You have that much faith in me?"

"I have that much faith that you will do what is right, not only because it is right, but because it is just." Maggie took a deep breath. "Because you never want to see anyone go through what you went through at the beginning of the war."

He straightened up swiftly, processors replaying the current conversation at lightning speed and recalling his own words in that meeting. Had he let so much slip? Had he let that much of himself be shown in just this few minutes of conversation with this human? He had been certain to be so careful with his words… and yet he could see how she could infer that kind of meaning from them.

Prowl leaned forward again, watching Maggie and wondering yet again at the changes coursing through his circuits. First he promised to guard Ratchet and his human, regardless of the many possible horrible outcomes of their union. Next he found himself divulging personal information before a room of humans. And yet there was no fear associated with these happenings, no need to check his own processors for further glitches or errors. There was this general sense of … acceptance. And the lingering thought that maybe, possibly, a life on Earth would not destroy the last bits of emotion left to his spark.

Maybe, possibly, a life on Earth with human friends could only increase his feelings.

"You are damaged," he found himself stating, optics narrowing at the bandage on her hand. "What has damaged you?"

It took Maggie a moment to follow the shift in conversation. Her eyes followed his, and she felt her face heating up in embarrassment. "I did something stupid," she sighed. "I got into a fight. I'm lucky to be standing in one piece, honestly."

Prowl's optics zoomed in, scanning lightly and determining within moments the extent of her injuries and what could have caused them. In that same moment, he interfaced with the mainframe, pulling down incident reports. "You hit someone," he said at last, confusion plain on his features. "Over me?"

Maggie shrugged a shoulder, feeling absolutely self-conscious. "He had it coming. And no one should talk about a friend like that. I don't care what planet they come from or what source of life they evolved from. Low is low, no matter the species. And what he said was definitely low."

"And we are friends?"

"Considering I just laid a guy out for calling you a childish name, I would say so, yeah."

Prowl straightened again, nodding his head as if coming to a permanent decision. "I accept. Thank you for defending my name, my friend."

"Don't worry about it. It's what friends do," Her smile grew and then dimmed considerably. "Now, I'm afraid I have to move our conversation onto a less pleasant track. Director Keller sent me to find you. He has some ideas on how to either rescue Elayna Fuego, or at least determine what Starscream is up to with these people."

Likewise, Prowl's friendly demeanor shifted towards his normally serious and severe expression. "I understand. Come, let us plan our strategy."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Silence blanketed the pre-dawn med-bay, wrapping the world in tiny muted beeps and twitters from various pieces of medical equipment. Lydia opened her eyes, surprised and not so surprised to find herself alone. Ratchet had been her constant companion since she had first come awake after that horrible plane crash, hovering over her and rushing to her side if she so much as blinked wrong. It was cute the first couple of times, and after their mating it was absolutely adorable (a term she would never EVER use in his presence). However, after several days of being tended to like an invalid, she had finally had enough. The hovering was killing her.

Mated to the mech or not, attempting to flush Ratchet from his own med-bay had been like yelling at a mountain. He just wouldn't budge. It had taken Ironhide and Optimus, the former threatening to blast off the mech's leg if he didn't move his aft, and the latter directly ordering him to resume his duties, before the yellow and green love of her life would leave her be.

The thought made her grin like a loopy two year old. Mated. She was _mated_to an Autobot. She was Mrs. Tall-Yellow-And-Frustrating. The thought was just too bizarre and wonderful at the same time. Her hand slipped beneath the blanket, fingers tracing down the healing scar that ran the length of her breastbone, then drifted over to the left. Heat flared beneath her fingers, the flesh and bone above her heart unnaturally warm. Her spark pulsed there, moving in perfect tandem with the beating of her human heart.

Pulsing in perfect unison with the spark of her beloved. It was as if they shared one spark instead of held two separate life forces.

Just thinking about him had that otherworldly heat flaring to life, and for a moment she could have sworn that she could see what he was seeing. The twins—Skids and Mudflap—stood over a mound of twisted metal, picking up pieces of it, scanning it, and sorting it into various containers. Salvage detail, she immediately identified the work. Ultra Magnus stood not too far away, the look on his face plating showing his absolute distrust of the situation. The same feelings of distrust and utter suspicion danced through the bond between Ratchet and herself, and she knew it came from her mate. For some reason he did not trust the twins in this activity.

Which was odd, considering salvage detail was a common punishment for ether set of twins. Why wouldn't Ratchet trust them with it? What were they doing that was so out of the ordinary. She focused her thoughts without realizing it, reflexively seeking more details to the scene unfolding in her mind.

She felt Ratchet jolt in surprise, optics swinging away from the work and in her direction before the image faded completely. Irritation, and beneath that a faint trace of adoration, sang through the bond. _You are supposed to be resting. _

A shiver danced up her spine, his words echoing in her mind as if he had just whispered them into her ear. And yet she felt the words in her spark more than heard them in her mind, and it was her turn to jerk in quiet shock. _I-I-I am_, she thought back at him quickly.

He harrumphed, and she had the impression his optics were narrowing. _You were not. You were eavesdropping on me. That's considered quite rude, you realize, even among mated pairs._

Lydia's face flushed scarlet, and she yanked the covers over her head when she realized he was chuckling at her—and that he knew she was blushing. Which only made her blush all the more. _Was not!_ She sent back quickly, trying not to pout. _Cut me some slack and stop picking on me, will ya? I'm new to all of this!_

_And I'm not? _

That question caught her off guard. Hadn't Arcee said that he'd... _What do you mean? I thought—_

_You thought what?_

It should have been impossible for any more blood to rush into her face. The laws of physics and medical doctrine just couldn't allow for her body to allocate that much of the fluid to the act of blushing without the rest of her dying. But somehow, she managed. And his chuckle at her reaction popped against the inside of her body much like the ticklish bubbles in their shared dream. So much so that she was giggling like a little kid and still blushing at the same time. He was enjoying this, dammit.

And secretly, so was she.

_Well, I, uh…_

_Something wrong with your vocal processor?_ He asked innocently. Well, innocently for him included no end of biting sarcasm, but still...

She thought back to that fateful conversation with Arcee, remembering how the femme had indicated that Ratchet had been mated once. She scrambled with how to phrase those words in a way that wouldn't offend her mate—

The bond between them went dead, just shut off as if someone had thrown a switch. Panic welled inside her in an instance, chasing away the embarrassed joy from a moment ago. _Ratchet?_ She called, trying her damnedest to open that link between them even though she had no idea how it had opened in the first place. _Ratchet!_

Lydia flung the covers from her body, fear-induced adrenaline pumping through her body. Her hands groped as fast as they could for the emergency call button on her bed.

And just as quickly as the bond had slammed shut, it flared back open again. Suddenly she was awash in the feelings of rapid movement and equally rapid annoyance. The annoyance, near as she could tell, wasn't aimed completely in her direction. Mostly it was aimed at a specific femme that happened to currently transform into a cherry red 1964 Porsche 911. And the thoughts that flowed along with that annoyance had her glaring daggers at empty space, wishing with all her might that she was staring into his optics.

_Ratchet! Don't you dare!_

Again, she felt his optics narrow. _You two gossiped about me! Why shouldn't I?_

She winced, kicking herself for somehow sharing that memory with him. She was going to have to get a handle on this bond thing and rather quickly. _Gossip is such a harsh term. We, uh, just discussed you. Yeah, it was a discussion._

_Just a discussion? About my mating history? Well, when you put it like that, I suppose that makes it ALL better._ The sarcasm in that prickled across her skin like tiny spiders, making her squirm.

_Cut that out,_ she snapped. _It's making my skin crawl. And if you lay a hand—or a wrench—on my best friend, I will never speak to you again._

_Not fragging likely_, he snarked. She felt him start to slow down though, amusement slowly starting to replace the irritation. Slowly, but that was better than nothing. Clearly she'd hit a hot button with him. _I would like to think I know you better than that. If anything, you would scream at me for the rest of our mating_.

Lydia gave a ladylike snort, trying to settle herself back into bed. The adrenaline was starting to fade now that she knew he was alright and that Arcee wasn't going to face the Autobot version of being skinned alive, leaving all the pains free to overwhelm her nervous system again. _You only wish. Why ruin my throat when there's plenty of things I can throw at you instead?_

He vented air, as close to a snort as his race could come. _Stealing my act now?_

_Nope. Consider it borrowing a personality trait from my mate._

Something flickered across their bond at her words, something bittersweet and nearly painful. She caught a glimpse of a bot before he reigned in that emotion, a femme with red and orange coloring and optics that glittered more than glowed. Whoever she was, the emotions she had felt from him in connection to her had been enough to bring tears to her eyes. And then she realized that Arcee had been in no real danger at all, that he had seized on the accidental sending of that conversation to distract her from the original topic. That being the loss of his first love and mate.

_You loved her_, she sent gently. _I can understand if you do not want to talk about her. The loss—_

_No, I did not love Starflare_. She felt him come to a halt, and was given a brief glimpse of the stars outside through his optics. A brief touch of longing that the stars he saw were not the stars that had decorated the sky above Cybertron. _I mourn that I did not get the chance to love her. The war broke out and you know the rest._

No, she didn't know the rest. Not from his point of view, and certainly not the things he had experienced all throughout that bloody conflict. But those things she carefully kept from flowing between them, hidden behind her love for him. Instead, she lifted her hand to her spark again, gently caressing the skin above it, wishing that her fingers were touching the warm metal of his chest plating, offering comfort in the only way she knew how.

Lydia felt his hand in return, felt the metal digits pressed to his own chest plate over his spark, and somehow she knew her hand touched his spark while his hand touched hers. It was an odd feeling. It was a wondrous feeling. And it was every feeling in between.

_We don't have to talk about it_, she sent.

_Not now_, he agreed. _But soon. There is so much to tell you very soon. When you are able to handle it. For now, I must return to my duties._

She nodded before she realized he couldn't see it. _Okay. But I have to ask, what did the twins do this time?_

Irritation replaced the bittersweet sorrow. It flickered across their bond, fizzling in her spark so badly that she audibly ground her teeth. Just a hint of what he felt had her ready to rip someone's head off for no good reason.

_That is precisely what Ultra Magnus and I are trying to find out. _

She frowned. _Aren't_ _they being punished for something? Isn't that punishment work?_

_It can be. However, these two 'generously volunteered' to take Ironhide and Bumblebee's shift at salvage work today_.

She frowned all the more, crossing her arms over her chest. _They are up to something. Those two would rather number crunch in my office than do salvage work._

_My point exactly. Now rest. And no more eavesdropping. That is an order._

He shut down the link between them before she could properly phrase a sarcastic response.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Lydia learned quickly after two more accidental eavesdropping events on her mate that she had to keep herself distracted so as to not think of him—at all. Unfortunately, to do that, she was going to have to violate his order to lay back and rest. She had tried that, simply laying down in the bed and letting her mind wander. But her thoughts always came back to the spark in her chest, and that led to her unconsciously running her hand over that spot. Which lead to two rather interesting incidents with her beloved.

Apparently, every time she did that, Ratchet would miss a step and nearly fall flat on his face. One instance had occurred when he was alone. The other occurred in the main hangar with almost everyone watching. Evidently he could feel her touch ghosting across his own spark each time her hand touched her chest. It was distracting to say the least and he had nearly returned to medbay with the intention of binding her hands to the fragging rails of her bed. It didn't help the fact that she found the entire thing marvelously amusing--_and_ he knew it. Needless to say, her beloved was not amused. At all. Even a little.

After today, she was going to have to go back to calling him 'Grumpy.'

Chuckling to herself, Lydia carefully reached up and shut off the sound to the many monitors hooked up to her body. It was still dark outside, near as she could tell, and the medbay was all but empty save for herself. Ratchet was on his boarder patrol duties, and Red Alert, like many of the Autobots who had chosen to call Earth their home, had taken to adjusting his recharge cycles to fall into place with human sleeping habits. Hence, if it was dark outside, most of the Autobots could be found in their respective rooms, deep into recharge.

So there was no one to yell at her when she took off the various devices and climbed shakily to her feet. There was pain in her body, and she fought back the urge to cry out. Limbs were stiff and sore, muscles atrophied from a month without serious use, deep bruises still aching as if they were fresh. She had more scars now, she knew, and the scar tissue only contributed to the stiffness of her joints. But she managed to stand on her own power and to shield her thoughts from her mate at the same time.

It was becoming easier to do that, this kind of mental shielding. Like building a tower around her mind that went up into eternity. So long as she stayed behind those mental walls, she wouldn't 'accidentally eavesdrop' on her mate. And right now, she definitely did not want him to know what she was doing.

Because, now that she was no longer fighting for dear life, little things that had happened in the past couple of weeks were beginning to surface in her mind. Things like knowing the name of Ratbat, of hearing his thoughts and feeling a kinship to him. And then there was that thing about her eye glowing during that battle, and Ratchet having to perform surgeries on her. That meant that he knew about her implants. And she wasn't entirely sure the fact that he hadn't brought them up yet was a good thing.

Just the thought of her beloved had those mental walls cracking, and she could feel the touch of his mind beginning to envelope her like warm satin gliding across her skin. Quickly she threw the walls back into place, tossing a rather timid 'SORRY!' in his direction before slamming the link closed.

"Distract yourself, DeMarco," she ordered, forcing herself to take her first step in nearly a month. "Focus on the pain and getting to some kind of reflective surface so you can see what you look like now."

The first step sent liquid agony splashing across her nervous system. She yelped, she couldn't help it, and went down in a heap on the Autobot-sized berth. She had barely pushed herself upright on her good arm when the doors to medbay nearly blew off their hinges and a deafeningly familiar roar filled the room. Grimlock all but ran into the central area, skidding on the floor in his haste to slow down.

It was then that she noticed Grim's roar had hidden the scream of a rather frightened human woman who clung to the dinobot's head like her life depended on it. It took her another moment to realize the woman was Dr. Tam.

"Grimlock hear Lydia cry. Grimlock no like to see Lydia hurt. Bring Dr. Tam to help Lydia," The giant T-Rex gracefully dipped his head to the side, dislodging the clinging human and dumping her rather unceremoniously on the berth next to Lydia. "Dr. Tam help Lydia? Please?"

"We will all help her, Grimlock," Arcee answered soothingly, walking in behind Grimlock. Her face plates were set in a friendly kind of smile, though Lydia could see the way the expression masked the intense worry in her optics. "That's what friends do. Aside from fixing medbay doors, that is."

"I'm fine, everyone. No need to panic. I just fell," Lydia peered over at the bent and warped metal, and winced. "Seriously, we need to get that fixed before Ratchet comes back. If he so much as finds out you stuck a foot in here, or that I was out of bed, we'll all be in for a world of hurt."

Grimlock lifted his head defiantly. "Medic has you long enough. Grimlock want visit time, too. Grimlock not afraid of Medic… mostly."

Despite herself, Lydia grinned. "I know you aren't, buddy. And thank you for looking after Dr. Tam for me."

She swore for a moment that something close to tenderness sparkled in his red optics as he looked at the other woman. "Dr. Tam is friend of Lydia. Dr. Tam help save Lydia. Dr. Tam is good friend to Grimlock, now, too."

"Careful," she leaned over to Song-Ming and whispered. "He means it when he says that. If you are his friend, you are his friend for life. I suggest stocking up on four-foot tall sparkly crayons. I'll give to you the link to my on-line supplier."

Lydia watched as Song-Ming's mouth fell open, her eyes wide as she stared back at Grimlock and then back at Lydia. She grinned. She couldn't help it. "You thought you could take care of him and give him back when I was well, didn't you?"

"I, uh, assu—assumed that he would remain here on the base. I live in D.C."

"Grimlock can visit D.C," the dinobot opened a plate on his tiny right arm, proudly displaying a multitude of government-issued passports. Lydia recognized the United States, Great Britain, New Zealand, France, Spain and the former Soviet Union before Grimlock concealed them from view. "Grimlock is citizen of world. Grimlock is allowed to visit, yes?"

"As much as Dr. Tam would love to have you visit," Arcee put in quickly, already seeing where this conversation was going and not liking it. "Wouldn't you love to have her come and visit you here? That way you wouldn't have to hide at all and the two of you could play together on the beach."

Grimlock's eyes seemed to light up at that. "That is better for Grimlock, yes. Is better for Dr. Tam?" He lowered his head to the birth, staring at them like a ten year old asking permission for his best friend to spend the night for the first time.

The earnest expression on that nightmarishly prehistoric face had both women grinning in spite of themselves. "Of course," Dr. Tam smiled, reaching out a hand to stroke his jaw plate. "I will always come and visit you when I can. Okay?"

The big bot lifted his head and nodded vigorously. Vigorously enough that the air disturbance from his action created enough wind to blow the women's hair straight back. "This make Grimlock very happy. Grimlock not threaten to eat nasty little human now."

That didn't sound good. "Nasty little human?" Lydia asked, eyes drifting towards Song-Ming and Arcee.

The two exchanged a glance and appeared to sigh in unison. "You get two guesses," Arcee said dolefully. "And you are only going to need one."

"Joshua," Lydia sighed this time, nearly slumping back to the berth. "Don't get me wrong, I am glad he survived. But why here? Why is he still here? Hasn't it been a month or something?"

Again, Arcee and Song-Ming exchanged a glance. "There have been some… complications," Arcee admitted.

"That's putting it lightly," Song-Ming rubbed at her temples with her left hand. "But let's not get into that now. There's a lot to tell you and not all of it is bad. You look like you could use a distraction of the good kind."

"I agree," Arcee scooped up Lydia gently, carefully seating her back on the human-sized bed.

"Grimlock have distraction," The dinobot cut in, taking a step or two back from the berth. "Grimlock have good distraction. Make Lydia smile."

Without another word, he opened a plate in his chest and an ocean of lilies and carnations started to pour onto the medbay floor.

Lydia laughed delightedly. "Awww, buddy, you brought me my favorite flowers. How nice…" And yet the amusement started to fade from her voice, her eyes growing wider and wider as the flowers kept pouring from his chest.

Arcee took a step back in alarm, optics tracking across the room as it rapidly began to fill with the flowers. "Let me guess," she dead-panned. "Subspace field to hold all of them?"

Grimlock nodded, seeming blissfully oblivious to the growing distress from all three femmes. "Me Grimlock do research. Me learn that flowers make humans better. So Grimlock got lots of flowers. Make Lydia better faster with more flowers."

By the time he was finished, the flowers had piled up to the medical berth, covering Arcee up to her waist. The three women gaped in astonishment at the medbay-turned-sea-of-flowers and stems. There was simply no words to describe the muted terror that filled their thoughts. What was supposed to have been a secret visit had turned into a living nightmare. Ratchet had given very strict orders that Lydia was not to have **_ANY_** visitors until he had cleared it.

"He's going to offline us all," Arcee stuttered out, clinging to the berth as if afraid the flowers would carry her off down the hall. _"Permanently_. I can just hear him now. 'This is a medbay, not some slaggin' human florist!'"

"Where are we going to hide them?" Song-Ming asked mournfully, an edge of panic working its way into her voice.

Lydia did the only thing she could do. She forced a smile and looked Grimlock in the eye. "Thanks, big guy. I love them. They are all so…" she swallowed hard, trying not to think about how many wrenches were going to be hurled into the wall over this one. "They are all so beautiful."

The sound of wheels peeling out rapidly on the floor had all four of them staring with mixed emotions in the direction of what was left of the doors. Sideswipe burst through, sword subspaced into his hand and ready for a fight. His optics widened instantly upon hitting the mass of flowers and his shoulders drooped even more so when he glanced up at the three femmes, two of which were not supposed to be in the room. Not to mention the giant T-Rex.

He squeezed his optics shut. "Primus save us all, what did you four do?" he muttered with feeling, rubbing his hand over his face plates. "He's going to offline all of you. Permanently. I better call Optimus."

"To help us?" Song-Ming asked hopefully.

"Uh-uh," Arcee moaned. "To hold Ratchet back so he won't make us all full-time residents of this med-bay."

Grimlock, ever unaware of the tension in the room, let out a triumphant roar. "Grimlock give best present ever. Make Lydia smile. Grimlock did _good_."


	28. Chapter 28 Friendship: Part 2

A/N: I can't stop thanking everyone enough for the reviews and kind messages. I'm beginning to sound like a broken record with the thanks, but there really isn't a way to say how much the support means to me other than THANKS! You make this story a joy to write. The suggestions just make it better and better with each passing chapter. So thank you again and again and again. :D

I need to thank Hummergrey once more for the ideas with Wheeljack. I don't know what I would do at times without the help and support. ::much hugs!::

On a side note, someone asked me once for a picture of Lydia. I do not have any artistic talent in the drawing department. I think my stick figures make other stick figures want to put them out of their misery. :P Does anyone know a good artist that wants to take a crack at drawing Lydia?

I would also like to take a moment to thank **Razorgaze** for agreeing to the insanity of being my beta. ::bows lowly:: The story makes much more sense after she goes through it with a fine-toothed comb. She's also an amazing author as well. Please go and check out her story "Our debt." The Link is in my profile page. It's brilliantly written. You'll love it. :)

One more last small note: The Qebraxian system is a system I created for story purposes. It does not appear in the cartoons, movies, or comic books. Razorgaze and I thought it would be a good idea to let all the research folks out there (like me ::grins::) know that before they started searching for something that did not exist.

Disclaimer: as always and forever, I do not own Transformers or anything associated with them, save for my OC's. This story is purely for fun. Please don't sue.

* * *

"Sideswipe," Wheeljack sighed for what felt like the millionth time, his sidebars flashing erratically with his annoyance. He tried to glare threateningly at the other mech, but found the action lost most of its fear-inspiring power when used from behind the glow of energon bars. "Get it through your thick processors already. I am _not_ going with you. I'm in enough trouble as it is. Optimus put me here, and here is where I'm going to stay until he says otherwise."

"Quit fussing like a rusted gear," Sideswipe muttered distractedly, his voice slightly muffled. "This will only take another astrosecond or two."

"Great," the inventor replied mock-brightly, settling back on the recharge berth with both hands behind his head. "Then it should take you less time than that to reverse the process and get your aft out of here before it's too late."

"You want out, don't you?"

"No."

There was a pause, and Wheeljack was sure that Sideswipe was rewinding that last bit of conversation to make certain his audio receivers were functioning correctly. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

"No, as in see my previous statement about the amount of trouble I'm already in. So thanks, but no thanks. I'll pass."

He couldn't quite make out Sideswipe's reply, though he was fairly certain it had something to do with the pit and what Wheeljack could do with his lack of gratitude. No doubt the mech had expected Wheeljack to be all excited and ready to add disobeying a direct order from his Prime to the growing list of charges mounting against him. He shuttered his optics in resigned disbelief. How either Sideswipe or Sunstreaker had made it to even their third frame with that kind of blatant disrespect was constantly beyond him. How they had managed to find a place and a home on Prime's team was nothing short of miraculous in his point of view.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that when the twins weren't causing all kinds of chaos on the base, they were a fighting force of no small renown on the field of battle. What he had seen the two do with an energon sword and the innate flexibility of their primary frame design could be considered an art form. A deadly, beautiful, dance of an art form, but an art nonetheless. Maybe there was some truth to the rumor that both twins were masters of all known Cybertronian martial art forms. It would make sense, he mused, given their synchronized mobility and actions on the field.

Which wasn't all that surprising, he concluded, considering what was passing across his optics at this very instant.

Wheeljack had to give him credit for the interesting position the mech had put himself into in order to facilitate this sham of a jailbreak. The silvery twin was balanced on just his right hand at the moment, his body inverted and bent at a rather steep and impressive angle. One wheeled foot braced against the sidewall of the brig cell, presumably to give added support to his positioning, and his entire head and left arm had vanished inside the wall. The sounds of metal shavings tinkling against metal as they fell to the ground filled the ensuing silence.

"Do I even want to know what you are doing in there?" Wheeljack sighed yet again.

"Probably not."

"Nothing is going to blow up, is it?" he asked suddenly. The twins weren't known for being the most careful of mechs and the fact that 'Sides was tinkering with wires specifically designed by someone as precise as Prowl was making him edgy. Add to the fact that he was trapped in a cube with no discernable cover, and that was enough to almost have Wheeljack reaching for the emergency distress button.

"Blow up? Nope. That's your department, 'Jack. Not mine."

Behind his battle mask, Wheeljack smirked. "Funny. You better be thankful that there are energon bars between you and me right about now."

"Relax," came the muffled laugh. "I've done this a thousand times."

"We haven't been on _Earth_ long enough for you to have done this a thousand times," Wheeljack countered. "Nevertheless on Diego Garcia."

"Here on Earth or on Cybertron, it really doesn't matter. The design's always the same."

"But the parts aren't," Wheeljack sat up quickly on the berth, optics whirling with his concern, trying to scan past the energon fields to see what Sideswipe was doing and all the while knowing the entire exercise was futile. The bars were designed—by his own processors, no less—to render the prisoner incapable of doing anything that might aid in his or her escape. Including scans. "Human materials are not like the ones back home."

"If all you are going to do is complain, I'm just going to leave your aft there."

"Good!" he exclaimed. "That's exactly what I want you to do."

"Oh, for the love of Primus," Sideswipe cried out in exasperation. "When was the last time you ever did anything on impulse—that didn't involve inventing, that is?"

"Four earth days ago," Wheeljack replied, his voice darkening with his growing anger. "When I threatened a human. Or did you suddenly forget that that was the reason I was put here?"

"Oh," came the reply… followed by a weighty pause. "Sorry. Anyway, look on the bright side. I'm done."

The cell door popped open without so much as a blip of protest, the purplish glow of the energon fading as power cells deactivated. Sideswipe pulled himself out of his compromising position, grinning like he had just won a prize or something, and put the wall panel back into place. Wheeljack strained his audio receptors, searching for the alarm he just knew had to be going off somewhere. No sound of Cybertronian feet against the concrete floor came back to him, no call across his internal comm. demanding just what in the name of Primus he thought he was doing.

He wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. But there was one thing; at least, he was absolutely certain of…

Wheeljack backed up, his optics narrowing and his sidebars the color of determination. He obstinately crossed his arms over his chest plating. "No," he barked out in defiance.

"Yes," Sideswipe demanded, his own optics narrowing and his voice loosing its playful tone. "You don't have a choice this time. We need you."

"'We,'" he echoed, eyebrow plates rising in unison. "Look, I'm already in enough trouble and possibly facing a permanent offlining. I'm not going to help you and your twin with any kind of prank, or help you clean up a prank—"

"This isn't for me and this time it isn't my fault," Sideswipe growled, his own frustration pouring from him in waves. Twin swords subspaced into his waiting hands. "It's for Arcee and Lydia, and so help me, you _are_ going to cooperate, 'Jack. I'm not going down for this act of supreme idiocy just because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

The colors of stubborn determination faded rapidly, transforming to outright concern. 'Sides was never this upset over anything that didn't concern himself or his brother. Add that to the fact that whatever had him so worked up also included Lydia and the situation went from stupidly amusing to worry in a nanoklik. "Whoa, slow down, 'Sides. I believe you when you say this wasn't your fault. Tell me what happened and quickly."

"Grimlock flipped his processors again and did something foolish," the other demanded, already starting to head for the door. "I need _your_ help to fix it before Ratchet gets back into the med-bay and offlines us_ all_. So shut up and follow. I went through a lot of trouble to get you out."

Wheeljack was moving before 'Sides had finished his last statement. The two raced down the hall.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Fate, to borrow the human phrase, was indeed a fickle bitch.

Sideswipe pondered that as he and Wheeljack pounded down the deserted hallway. It had taken him less than two minutes to hack into the computer relays for this section of the base and rewrite the orders concerning assigned work detail. Sunstreaker, his twin and partner in crime, was going to be irate that 'Sides had blown that pain-stakingly created hack on cleaning up a situation that they truly had no part in. That hack had been meant for Ironhide's personal quarters, more specifically the codes for his recharge berth.

That particular prank would have to wait another cycle or two now. More important things lay ahead. And it bothered him to no end that he would even think such a thing like 'there was something more important than bashing 'Cons to pieces or the much-beloved prank war.' It proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that Lady Fate had forced him to be the responsible 'bot in this mess, and that just added fuel to his raging temper. What he was going to have to say next just burned his circuits.

But it was for Lydia… and it was for Arcee. There was a part of him that respected the human mate of the Hatchet, and it had nothing to do with her choice of mate. Okay, it _mostly_ didn't have a thing to do with her choice of mate. Though a certain degree of respect just had to be handed to the femme that could put up with the grumpy and stuffy medic. What caused him to act on her behalf was that prank last July with the other twins. His systems shuddered at the ingenuity of the stunner net and the air fresheners. The last thing he needed was to be on her bad side right this moment.

But, be that as it may, there was an even larger part of him that felt more than a passing interest for Arcee. That he kept carefully concealed from everyone, his twin included.

Had it not been Lydia and Arcee in the med-bay, he would have fallen on the floor laughing until he thought he would blow a fuse. Just the thought of Ratchet the "Hatchet" surrounded by a field of human flowers like some processor-burnt drone was just too much to imagine. As it stood, he was still wildly amused by the whole thing and made a mental note to use flowers in his next prank. The lingering scent of that many of them would be a reminder of the fun for days to come.

But now wasn't that day, and for Arcee and Lydia's sake, he had to be the responsible one and say a few words before the inventor made an already alarmingly bad situation worse. Oh yes, Lady Fate was fickle, alright…

"Hold on," Sideswipe quickly planted a silver-armored hand into the wall in front of Wheeljack. "There are some things you need to know before we continue."

The inventor nearly shook with his impatience, skidding to a halt to avoid clothes-lining himself on the other's arm. "If it has to do with Lydia, I already know. You forget that I was there to help put her back together."

"That's precisely the point," he stared the other in the optic, hoping the severity of his words would sink past the need to help. Wheeljack was a wonderful friend and a hell of a science officer, but he also tended to think five steps ahead when he should be concentrating on the next he was about to take. "I don't think she knows yet, and no one has said anything to her, even her human friends."

That stopped him, and Wheeljack's sidebars displayed his mingled surprise and trepidation. "She has to know about the spark now."

Sideswipe waved his free hand in a human gesture of impatient dismissal. "Yes, yes. Of course she knows that. Ratchet completed the bonding sequence with her—"

"They are bound now?" Wheeljack cut him off, trepidation melting into joy. "Truly bound? That is fantastic! I mean, I knew that they were heading down that road and I've said as much to the others. No femme has ever reached him the way she has. But we never thought it would get that far and the fact—"

"Wheeljack!" the other snapped, the words spitting through the air like acid. "Put your gears in neutral and upload what I am saying, here. Yes, they are bound, and as to the consequences of that bond… well no one knows. Just like no one knows the extent of what that spark in her chest is going to do to the new implants you two geniuses fused to her skeletal structure."

"Time, testing and monitoring will be necessary, yes," Wheeljack admitted, the concern returning to frustrated impatience. "I fail to see what you are getting at."

Sideswipe felt like slamming his own head repeatedly into the wall until either the inventor started to understand or he temporarily offlined himself. "How many different ways do I have to say this? _NO ONE_ knows how those parts are going to react to her organic nature and vice versa. That _includes_ the femme in question. She doesn't know, Wheeljack. I don't think she's seen a mirror to notice that you two replaced her opti—her eye—with a different one!"

"We had no choice with that one," Wheeljack countered defensively. "You know as well as I that it was a part of Megatron. The influx of Decepticon energy activated circuitry in it that the humans couldn't even begin to dream was there. We couldn't run the risk of the thing acting independently of the femme and relaying whatever she knew to Megatron, directly. We still don't know if that occurred before her incident with Ratbat. We had to replace it and Ratchet was the logical choice of parts at the time."

Sideswipe felt his jaw plating fall open as he replayed that last bit of conversation. Did he hear 'Jack right? Did he just admit that Ratchet gave up his own parts to fix… He felt his spark sink in his chest. Yes. Yes, he had heard correctly, and once again he felt like slamming his head into the wall over and over again. It seemed to be his day for running into things he wished to Primus he had never learned.

Like the others, he had just assumed that the inventor and the medic had created the replacement part from available materials. He didn't need Prowl's tactical gift of processing nearly a thousand possibilities all at once to see how bad that could go—for Lydia and Ratchet.

And it was for this very reason, if not for the words Wheeljack had spoken, that Sideswipe intervened. The mech just couldn't keep his vocal circuitry from stating whatever it was that happened to pass through his processors at the moment. What he saw as harmless, like their conversation not astroseconds before, could be a very hurtful thing to someone in Lydia's position.

"Look," he continued, shoving those thoughts away for another time and lowering his arm. He moved to stand in front of the mech. "I've had to spend Primus knows how long uploading more information about the human species than I would have ever wanted to know. I needed to understand in detail every bit of their tolerance levels, structural integrity, and neural processing capabilities before I could even dream of pranking anybot on this base. You and Ratchet are probably the only two mechs that know more about their biology than me. What I'm trying to tell you is that you can't go in there and react to anything you see in regards to her. Not her new eye, and certainly not to any new ability she may evidence. Not until Ratchet brings it up first."

Wheeljack considered the mech before him a moment, running his words and reactions though his processors. "You talk like you disagree with what we did to save her life."

"Only partially," Sideswipe answered truthfully. "Parts are parts. Change them out at will. Even humans do that with their internal pieces in what they call organ transplants. What I disagree with is the fact that no one has discussed this with her. Not the first time the parts were added by those pit-spawned Sector Seven medics, and definitely not this time around. Were I in her position, I think I would be fragging angry. Beyond fragging angry, actually. Especially considering she's been here a month and no one has said anything."

Wheeljack had the grace to look shame-faced. "We did what we could… there were really no other options."

"I know. And I think she'll understand that, too. But Ratchet had better come clean with it soon. Her entire life has changed and probably not for the better. Now, please, for all our sakes, keep your vocal processor in neutral and let's get this med-bay fixed before we're all scrap."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Sideswipe's words haunted him during the entirety of the repairs, eclipsing the small moments of amusement at the activities around him. Well, that and the fact that Sunstreaker, ever curious as to why his twin was blocking their twin-bond so strongly, had stumbled across their little nefarious operation. The glossy yellow autobot had literally fallen on the floor laughing so hard that Wheeljack was certain he was going to overload his processors from it.

Then again, Wheeljack couldn't help but chuckle, himself at the sight of it all. Lydia sat on Grimlock's head, having been placed there so that she may continue to rest and not alert her mate by accident, weaving a massive circlet of lilies like a crown for him. In the meantime, Arcee, Sideswipe and the human Song-Ming were frantically trying to corral a tidal wave of flowers into one corner of the med-bay with anything and everything they could lay a hand on.

Everyone looked up and paused at their various tasks at his approach, and subsequently glowered at the mech when Sunny collapsed into his fit of hysteria.

At first, he and 'Sides focused on repairing the med-bay doors, getting them back into line and into their usual straight shapes without too much of a ruckus. A small side trip to his lab had had to be arranged, and considering that place was on lockdown as much as the mech himself was supposed to be, it had lead to a rather delicate series of events.

Thankfully—and he never in his entire life had believed he would be thankful for this—he had the corvette twins with him. If anyone could bypass the security lock on the lab, get in and out of the place without being detected, and still manage to look like they had every right to traipse through the areas that they had, it was those two. Two of Wheeljack's inventions were needed to make things right. The first being a sound and vibration dampening field generator, needed so that the three mechs—Grimlock included—could pound and smooth the warped doors back to their original shape.

The second device had Arcee grabbing both the human femmes and wedging herself into a supply cabinet just at the sight of it. For the second time that cycle, Wheeljack found himself having a muffled conversation with an Autobot buried inside a wall.

He tried not to let his disappointment show at the lack of faith the femme put in him and his inventive abilities. "Arcee, please come out."

"No way," came the muffled reply. "Not until you're done doing whatever it is you are going to do."

His optic plates drew down in annoyance. "You don't even know what this device is!"

"So? We lucked out with the sonic dampening. It worked perfectly. I'm not so sure this next one will. The humans have a phrase that explains this perfectly. Something about naturally occurring electrical current not grounding itself in the same place more than once."

"Lightning never strikes twice in the same place," Lydia cheerfully supplied the translation. At least he thought she sounded cheerful. It was hard to tell what with her vocals coming at him from behind two feet of solid steel. "And I trust you, Wheeljack. You know that."

"You can trust him all you want," Arcee put in. "But I am your guardian now. I don't trust that untested device around you while you are still damaged. So long as I'm still online, I'll do what it takes to keep you safe."

Snickering made his optics flick to the right, and his sidebars displayed his growing annoyance. "Aren't you two supposed to be figuring out how to get me back into the brig?"

The snickering cut off as quickly as it began. Sunstreaker stared at him as if he had just suggested linking with Starscream or something equally as vile. "You can't be serious. Why in the Pit would you want to go back there?" He turned to his twin, shaking his head balefully. "Something must be wrong with his processors."

"See what I've had to put up with," Sideswipe sighed, sweeping the last of the flowers into an impressive mound in the center of the room. "No respect for all that hard work of busting him out. And he just wants to go right back in. Sad, really."

"Sad," Sunny agreed, nodding... and then jumping back swiftly when the instrument his twin was using passed dangerously close to his side. "Hey! Watch the paint! And if you try to insert one more of those cursed organic plants into my joints, I'm going to make you pay."

"Serves you right," Sides smirked. "Laying on the floor laughing and not bothering to help."

"Did I plan this prank? Did I put these flowers here? I don't think so. So why should I help clean it up?"

There was a tapping sound coming from the panel in front of him, and Wheeljack turned his attention back that way. "Yes?"

"'Jack, do I want to know why you were in the brig in the first place?" Lydia asked.

The sidebars flashed deep scarlet, the outward indication of his blush of embarrassment and personal dismay. It wasn't his place to explain the content of that horrible meeting, or the events that led up to his outburst. More than that, he was truly and completely ashamed of his own actions regardless of the fact that they were performed in the defense of one he called a friend. "Honestly? No."

"Okay," she replied. "But keep in mind that I will find out about it eventually. All energy expenditures—especially those in the brig area—fall under my jurisdiction for accounting purposes."

"I know," he said quietly, softly brushing his hand against that panel as if he could somehow make amends by just touching her, knowing she was indeed safe and would live. "It will make for an interesting read, I'm sure," he said aloud instead, taking a step back from the storage cabinet.

"I'm sure," She laughed. "Looking forward to it."

Wheeljack nodded once, turning back to the twins. "Okay, you two. Get behind me. And while I'm doing the hard part, you two should be working on the challenge I gave you."

"Challenge?" Sunstreaker echoed, moving into position and frowning. "What challenge?"

"Think about it," he replied, tapping buttons on the data pad in his hands. "You two can break out of anything, right? Simple as hacking a human mainframe, right?"

The twins exchanged a glance. "Right…" 'Sides agreed carefully.

"Well, think of the challenge I'm giving you. Not only do you need to sneak a bot _back into_ the brig—something you have never done before—but you have to do it in such a way that both Prime and Prowl will not notice."

The silence behind him only made him smile, knowing that Sunstreaker's pride would not let him back down from a direct challenge. If he guessed correctly, the plans were already forming in the mech's processors, turning over and over. Fast behind that was the growing rush of the act, itself, and the accolades that he would heap onto himself if he could pull it off. Then he could truly claim that he could come and go within the brig as he wished to, regardless of the best efforts of his fellow Autobots.

Things were starting to look like he was going to get away with this little trip out of lockdown. Wheeljack permitted himself a smile, keying in the sequence to activate the device before him. It rested on a medical berth, its shape similar to an elongated egg with the tapered end pointed towards the assembled mechs and the larger inverted end aimed at the pile of flowers. The air around them began to grow heavy, dense, as if pressure was being applied in all directions at once.

Grimlock shook his head back and forth, trying to shake off the invisible force. "Grimlock no like bad egg on berth. Make head hurt. Grimlock think Arcee have right idea."

The three remaining mechs watched as the T-Rex transformed into his bi-pedal form and proceeded to follow Arcee's example. Wedging himself beneath an examination table, he pulled one of the mobile carrying berths down to shield the opening.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Grim," Wheeljack grumped sourly. "I'll remember that at your next weapons upgrade."

"'Jack free to remember," Grimlock retorted. "If there is anything _left _of 'Jack to remember when finished."

Sideswipe scanned the room rapidly; optics narrowing at what his sensors told him. "'Jack, what is this thing supposed to do again?"

The inventor turned his sour look onto the remaining twins. "Didn't you pay attention the first time? It's a little something I've been tinkering around with since the last time we had Skywarp in our brig."

Sunny crossed his arms over his chest, looking bored. A stark contrast to his tense twin. "That was vorns and vorns ago, Wheeljack. Long before we landed here on this planet."

"Who cares how long ago it was," 'Sides eyed the invention warily, taking a step or two back. "I want to know what part of Skywarp you were using to create this."

"It's an experiment into the warping capabilities that he used when attempting to kidnap Bumblebee on that planet in the Qebraxian system. I was able to duplicate, I think, the proper frequency to warp—"

He cut off at the sound of two more supply cabinets slamming shut. Glancing around, he found himself standing alone with a data pad in hand, facing the fearsome mound of flowers. Behind his battle mask he couldn't help but grin. _So much for the fighting prowess and indomitable will of the twins. Defeated by a half-tested invention and a pile of _deceased_ organic plant material. _Chuckling to himself, he keyed in the final sequence.

The air in the room grew denser and denser, moving towards the center where the flowers rested. He watched as the target in question began to shimmer as if waves of heat were emanating from the petals. And then the objects lost all three-dimensional characteristics. Then they lost all sense of color before vanishing with only the slightest popping sound.

Wheeljack's optics and sidebars lit up with triumph. "You can come out now oh brave warriors of the Autobots," he teased. "The ferocious flowers have been vanquished."

Doors popped open only slightly, bright blue orbs peering from cracks and around overturned berths. He could feel the scans pouring into the room and instead of annoying him, they only made him laugh. "I told you that not all of my inventions explode." He retorted smugly.

One by one they all climbed out, wariness still evident in their stances.

"Where did they go?" Arcee asked.

Wheeljack tapped a few more keys on his data pad, the light of success in his optics beginning to fade. "Hrm, that's funny."

Everyone froze, including the humans.

"Is that a ha-ha kind of funny," Sunstreaker asked. "Or is that a Ratchet-is-going-to-delight-in-taking-us-apart-wire-by-wire kind of funny?"

"That depends," the inventor replied.

"On what?" Lydia asked this time.

"On where the flowers eventually end up," Wheeljack answered matter of factly. "I set the coordinates for the bottom of the Mariana Trench in the ocean near China. Apparently they didn't show up yet."

"Yet?" Song-Ming squeaked, going pale again.

Lydia rubbed her temples, not bothering to correct Arcee when she started to carry herself and Song-Ming back into the storage cabinet. "'Jack, please tell me you did not just pull a 'Scotty' and lost them in some sort of time-space distortion."

"I don't know what a 'Scotty' is, but… Yes, that does appear to be an acceptable explanation," He looked up from his data pad, glancing around as if they were discussing the weather and not the fact that he had literally lost a ton of flowers at the crossroads of time and space. "The information I have gleaned thus far will take a while to interpret. Looks like I will have something to do in the brig for the rest of my stay. Regardless of that fact, the problem of the flowers appears to have been solved. Anything else you need a hand with?"

"NO!" Everyone seemed to shout at once.

"Thank you, 'Jack, for all your help," Lydia put in quickly, trying to smooth out the rudeness of that sudden exclamation. "Later, if you're not too busy, I'll introduce you to a television show called 'Star Trek.' I think you will love it. But right now I'm a little tired. I think I need to rest. Sideswipe, would you and Sunstreaker help Wheeljack back into the brig?"

Wheeljack, for his part, appeared oblivious to the words she had spoken. His attention was turned inward, going over the data he had collected and turning over the various possibilities. He hardly noticed when 'Sides grabbed his arm and started leading him out of the bay. When the doors slid closed with perfect ease and she was settled back into her bed, Lydia let out a sigh of relief.

"I wonder where those flowers went…" Song-Ming commented, heading to the door with Arcee.

"So long as they aren't here, I don't want to know." Arcee replied, gathering Grimlock as they walked towards the exit. "My spark can't take another incident like that without going into shock. Let's contemplate something happier, shall we?"

The doors closed behind them.


	29. Chapter 29 Conversation Part 2

A/N: I wish to thank everyone for sticking with me in this ever-growing story! I cannot believe all the support and love that has come my way with these characters. The fact that people love Lydia (and love her with Ratchet) just makes my heart flip with happiness. Thank you to everyone that has offered suggestions, help, reviews, or just let me randomly rant about things like writer's block or Ironhide refusing to do what I asked him to do. I think he's still sore about being yelled at by Sarah Lennox. ::shrugs and grins:: He'll get over it... I hope?

This chapter was delayed by several things, and for that I apologize. You see, when people started reviewing this story in ernest, I made a promise that I would put out one chapter a week at the very least. I know that I am addicted to several stories involving our favorite Cybertronians, and it's frustratingly fun to wait a month or more for an update. I wait, of course, because these stories are just amazing and I truly love the work the authors have put into them. But being on the waiting side, well, I didn't want to do that to anyone that reads and enjoys this story.

Given that, I want to give a huge apology to Razorgaze, my beta. She is fantastic and also an amazing author as well. Check out her story "Our Debt," the link to which is on my profile page. The apology comes because my husband was giving me such crap about how I agonize over this story, trying to make it perfect. Finally, I looked at him and told him that if he thought he could do it better, he could beta this chapter for me. Three hours later, he gave the laptop back and muttered about how Razorgaze must be a saint or something to put up with my crazy ideas.

I, personally, laughed hysterically. Hence, this chapter was Beta'ed by LordofDarkstar. If there are issues with it, I will throw them gleefully into his lap.

Disclaimer: I only wish I owned Transformers. Alas, I do not. This is only for fun. Please don't sue!

* * *

Thirty Earth cycles had passed, Ratbat calculated, staring down at his limp and damaged wing. Thirty Earth days since that cowardly Starscream had left him for dead. Thirty cycles since that insufferable Grimlock had crunched down on his slender form, nearly ripping him literally limb from limb. The anger in those massive jaws, the pain from those razor-edged teeth… it was enough to send him back into a spark-attack to think about it. Needless to say, it was an experience he would never want to relive again.

But it wasn't without its merit, either. For when that confoundedly stupid dinobot had set about chewing on his frame, he had been screaming out the name of that femme, that _Lydia_. There was something monumentally significant about that human woman —if indeed she was human at all, something of which he was beginning to seriously doubt—to make no less than three Cybertronians scream her name in less than an Earth hour.

Lydia… Lydia… and Josh.

He played their names over and over again as he limped around his tiny cell. It took him less than four steps to make it completely from one side to the other, however the action felt good to what was left of his shell. Ratchet had patched him up enough to keep him functioning, and for that he was marginally grateful. He wasn't even resentful of the fact that the medic had refused to repair his wings or his damaged scanning and targeting systems. If anything, it deepened his respect for him. That balance between compassionately repairing a prisoner and outright denying said prisoner anything to aid in his escape showed a brilliance that was severely lacking in the processors of most of his brethren.

Most of his fellow Decepticons thought only of the thrill of destruction, never about the gain or cost of the act. Ratchet evidenced a remarkable knack for tallying up the points on both sides of an argument within a nanosecond, choosing the option that presented the most gain for his side of the war. Never choosing the side that benefited the medic most, personally, or provided better entertainment or independent gratification. Ratbat could overlook that self-sacrificing tendency of the medic's in favor of the shrewd mind behind those blue optics.

Because it would have been much more gratifying to the mech in question to watch Ratbat die of his injuries. That much was plain in every fury-filled motion of Ratchet's steady hands. Ratbat had been treated to the delicious sight of watching those blue optics blaze nearly red with barely contained rage. Yet still, with all the outrage burning within the mech's spark, his actions were precise and he did his job with incredible skill.

More than ever, he was certain that Ratchet was meant to be a Decepticon like himself, one possessed of skill as well as rage. And perhaps this Lydia was the key to his undoing. It was a thought that bore merit, but one that was to be pushed aside in favor of the larger puzzle. No, the foremost puzzle on his proverbial plate was that of the femme, herself. What was it about her that had mechs demanding her presence, willing to forego carefully crafted plans or attempting to lay down their very sparks for her pitiful fleshy life?

For a moment he allowed the fantasy to play out before his optics as it had for the length of his incarceration, the image of the woman tied to his examination table. Her screams would echo for hours and hours as he pushed her pain tolerances to their limits. But he would never kill her with the agony alone. Oh, no, there were far more interesting things to learn from her body. Death would be such a waste at this point. Besides, the object of his true anger would not be far from his grasp. The human male called Josh would be nothing more than pieces for him to kick around at his leisure before he would have turned his attention back to Lydia.

Then he would dissect her molecule by molecule until he discovered the source of her power, of her sway over the mechs she came in contact with. Later, possibly, he could find a way to blame her death on the Autobots. The thought made him chortle as he turned to limp-pace his way to the other side of his cell. Sweet irony, as the humans would say, to see Ratchet turned against everything he once believed in over the death of his little human pet. Then he would come to Ratbat with a will forged in rage and optics the color of her spilled blood.

Then he would utilize the mech to take apart Starscream bit by tiny memory bit. It was a delicious fantasy, one that kept his circuits fueled and his anger primed during his tenure as a prisoner.

"In a good mood today, I see."

Ratbat did not bother to look up. One of his optics was crushed beyond repair anyway, and the damage to his cerebral circuits impaired what vision was left in the remaining one. "What business is it of yours, Autobot?"

Ironhide shrugged a shoulder, one of those frightening cannons beginning to charge. "Maybe today's the day that Prime will let me blast you back to the Matrix."

Half of Ratbat's face curled up in a smile of pure malice, the other hung as lifeless and shattered as his wings. "I should be so lucky," He watched the mech's eyes narrow, taking some kind of pleasure out of turning Ironhide's barb back against him. Carefully he turned, continuing his pacing. "What is it you want, lackey?"

"I am no one's lackey, rodent," Ironhide growled, stepping closer to the cage.

"You blindly follow a Prime," Ratbat sneered. "That alone makes you a lackey. But you also follow the _last_Prime, which makes you stupid as well. Your side is loosing, and more than that, it is dying. Offline yourself and save us the trouble. It is only a matter of time before the Decepitcons reign supreme—"

The electrical blast shook the cage, throwing the wounded 'Con onto the floor. Convulsions wracked his frame, the images coming from his good optic frizzing and blurring and shifting between all the light spectrums and then some. It felt like forever before the pain passed and his intake vents could do more than shutter erratically in their attempts to pull in air. Mercifully the power overload faded and his spark started to pulse normally. Another moment was needed for his circuits to cool. Still another was needed for him to regain his footing.

"That was low," he snarled, voice modulator quaking still from the electrical feedback, cycling each word high and low as it reset itself. "I would not expect such underhanded tactics from the noble Ironhide. Isn't attacking an unarmed prisoner beneath your foolish code of ethics?"

"He didn't do it," Jolt hissed. He flicked his wrist to the side, the whip coiling back into its holding compartment at the motion. "I did. If you would have bothered to watch your own back instead of prattling out that propaganda garbage, you would have seen that attack coming. Becoming too comfortable here?"

Ratbat restrained his cooling fans by sheer will alone, refusing to let the other know that that verbal stab had hit its mark. He forced a smile. "Yes, thank you. My accommodations are stunning. Autobot hospitality is truly second to none."

Jolt looked as if he were going to leap onto the cell this time, and Ironhide's hand on his shoulder plating was the only thing that kept him in check. "Enough," the black armored weapon's expert interjected, optics narrowing on him once again. "You know why we are here. You ready to answer our questions?"

Ratbat put one foot in front of the other, pacing the length of his cell. "That depends. Are you ready to answer mine?"

"You are not in a position to demand anything," Jolt put in.

Ratbat only shook his head. "That, much like your faith in your chances of winning this war, is wrong. I am in a position to demand anything I like."

"This is a waste of time," Jolt muttered, heading for the door. "Ironhide, we have more important things to do. He isn't going to talk."

"Name your demands," Ironhide said, the buzz of his cannons still warming the air around them. "And we will see."

That got his attention. The pacing stopped, and Ratbat tilted his head to the side, the once graceful action now choppy and horrifying to behold. They were willing to deal, to play his game? Now, suddenly, after all this time? Suspicion was fast on the heels of his surprise. Something had to be wrong, he surmised, something he could use to his extreme advantage.

"Something has changed, hasn't it?" he said aloud, more to himself than to the others. "Your Prime knows something new… or thinks he does. Ah, that must be it. He wants something confirmed, does he not?"

Ironhide's expression gave no indication whatsoever as to if the 'Con was right. "Is that one of your demands?"

"No," Ratbat replied, hopping forward until he nearly touched the bars. "I propose a trade, Autobot. For every question I answer, you must answer one of mine in turn. Are we agreed?"

Jolt stiffened at the words, the incredulous look on his face plates showing clearly what he thought of the deal. Those whips appeared again as if to punctuate the point. "Ironhide, you can't seriously agree to this."

"That depends on the questions," Ironhide quipped, seeming to ignore his companion. "I believe you know what I'll answer and what I won't."

Ratbat made another chortling sound. "I am not as stupid as he looks," he pointed a damaged claw at Jolt, earning a growl from the other in return. "There is no profit in shutting down our session with asking about your defenses and your plans. These are things I know you will not answer and that I can learn on my own given enough time."

Ironhide nodded. "Then let's begin. The All-Spark shard. Where did you get it?"

"From the humans," he answered.

The big mech's eyebrow ridges drew down. "Not good enough."

Ratbat would have shrugged, had his frame not been so mangled. He settled with blinking his optics. "It is truth. I do not know where the humans located it. Only that a contact of mine presented me with an opportunity to claim it. I have answered truthfully and completely. Now it is my turn. There is something different about the human designated Lydia. What is it?"

A growling sound started to pour from the weapon's master. His cannons were instantly ready and Ratbat was willing to bet the safety features were off. Instead of frightening the smaller mech, it only amused him. Interesting, he mused. The reaction only confirmed his theory and fanned the flames of his obsession. If only the fool before him knew how much he gave away without realizing it. There was indeed something different about this human. Perhaps she was a prototype weapon of some sort?

"Why do you want to know that?" Ironhide asked softly, the deadly warning clear in his tone.

"It is my turn to ask, Autobot," Ratbat insisted. "Remember our deal. It is your turn to answer."

"She is an ally and a friend."

"Not good enough," Ratbat snarled, borrowing the mech's words from before, his entire frame nearly vibrating with his desire for the truth. "Answer!"

"Ironhide," Jolt warned. "Don't. Whatever you tell him is going to be used against us. I doubt he has her best interest at heart."

"But I do," Ratbat smiled his gruesome broken smile again. "And I think you want to know what I know if you value your little squishy friend."

He had both mechs attention now, and his elation only grew.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Miracle of all miracles, he found her doing exactly what he had asked her to do.

Lydia lay in her human-sized bed, the various bits of monitoring equipment attached to her just as he had left it, her vital signs exhibiting a deep and restful recharge cycle. Sleep, he had to correct himself in thinking. Humans slept and Cybertronians recharged. It was normally not a distinction he had to force himself to make when dealing with a patient. But Lydia was different now, and his processors kept trying to put her into the category of femme instead of female.

Ratchet decided against his normal scan, seeing as the monitors told him everything he wanted without having to disturb her. And so he let his optics view her, pondering on how hard it was to force that shift in classification. While his optics registered the fact that her body was organic, that her brain was protein-based and that the primary fluid within her systems was blood and not the many different energon-based kinds that flowed through his tubes, his sensors picked up on her energy signature long before his optics scanned her.

She felt like a Cybertronian. She felt like an Autobot. But she also felt like Lydia, and that was a relief that nearly floored him once more.

He had feared that, when he had replaced her implants with his own parts, she would carry his signature. That presented all new avenues of problems, from what his fellow Autobots would say down to an accidental targeting of her fragile life by mistake by Decepticons looking to slag him. His signature was well-known among his enemies and he wasn't foolish enough to think that, since he was a medic, they would hesitate to fire on him. If anything, it made him an almost bigger target than his Prime.

But she had her own signature, thank Primus. She had her own spark to fuel it, and while he had only a faint idea how that had happened, he wasn't going to knock it. Lydia registered as both a human and a femme, sending his logic circuits in a tizzy each time he tried to focus on that fact. Theoretically, it was impossible. He had said so time and again. But he had also said time and again that no human and no Cybertronian could do what they had done. Yet there he stood, bonded to a human.

His Lydia was a special case, one he was going to have to wrack his processors to explain to the others. But at least his spark and his processors agreed on one category for his beloved, that of _mate._

His spark grew tender as he approached, and he stood for some time watching her sleep curled on her side. The wounds on her face were almost gone; only the faintest of lines to evidence what had been horrific lash-like burns. She was healing faster than a human should, and he credited that in part to the spark within her chest. The rest of the credit he split between them both: he with his expert care and her with her good health. It would not be long before there would be no medically sound reason to keep her in isolation.

Then he would have much to explain to the others. But for now, he had much to explain to his mate.

Her lips twitched in her supposed slumber, and he vented air in amused annoyance. "Just how long do you think you can pretend to sleep with me watching you?"

Again, her lips twitched, but she remained still. He could feel the joy in her at his presence, the pleased rush like a tingle against his own fingertips. She was very much aware of him, and still she played the little game. Well, he could play that game as well. One massive finger glided over the blanket with the softest of caress, starting at her foot and working slowly up her leg, tracing a gentle arc over her hip to where her arm lay across her waist. He felt her body go rigid, every muscle tense in her desperate fight to maintain her illusion of sleep. The laughter within her at the ticklish sensations floated across the bond, a lovely sound as alive to him as if she had sat up and laughed out loud.

The caress continued its path up her arm to her shoulder, hesitating only a moment before hoping up to trace the delicate shell of her ear. She trembled and twitched at his touch, her nervous system practically screaming for her to react to the gentle torture he inflicted mercilessly on her form. His fingertip dropped from her ear to that overly sensitive flesh between her ear and the back of her neck. With a squeal, she finally gave in, surrendering to the overriding need to squirm that danced up her spine.

"You don't fight fair," she laughed, opening her eyes and flinging her pillow at him.

The cloth object bounced off his chest armor harmlessly and he merely raised his eyebrow plates. "You call pretending to sleep fair?"

"I call following your orders fair," She sat up, crossing her arms over her chest, her eyes still glittering with amusement.

He vented air that sounded suspiciously like a snort. "The day you follow my orders completely is the day I let Sideswipe perform a processor replacement on me."

Lydia fought to hide the sudden flush of embarrassment that rose in her thoughts at the mention of the twins, slamming the link closed between them before she realized it. She still wasn't very good at shielding her thoughts, and more often than not the first bit of them slipped through her grasp before she could blot out the rest. The last thing she needed him to see was the instant images that popped to her mind, that of the flowers and Wheeljack and the twins and…

In hindsight, shutting him down like that was probably a larger sign of her guilt than a blush across her skin would have been. She winced as his optics narrowed, the playfulness he showed only to her vanishing as quickly as it came. Grumpy came to the forefront of his eyes, the loving mate receding back into his spark.

"What are you hiding from me?" he accused.

"What makes you think I'm hiding something?" She tried, doing her best to look innocent.

And failing miserably at it, if the way his suspicion continued to rise was any indication. "For one, you are shielding your thoughts from me. For another, your heart rate has increase. So has your respiration rate," he added, pointing over her shoulder at the medical equipment still attached to her. "Not to mention I've had vorns beyond vorns of experience dealing with mechs like Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. I think I can sense a deception when it's coming at me by now."

Lydia sent a baleful look at the monitors still hooked up to report her vital signs, thinking black thoughts at them. The machines continued to perform their job flawlessly, and in her mind a little too cheerfully, seemingly unphased by the human glowering at them. She hunched her shoulders, looking back at her mate and then letting her eyes fall to the sheets. "Okay, I got out of bed today. A lot."

"Is that all?"

She hunched over more, fully aware that she looked like a spoiled pouting overgrown child. But then again she felt that way, so it stood to reason that she would look that way. "I was looking for a mirror," she said truthfully, sitting up straight again as a thought occurred to her. "And I was trying to follow your orders. You didn't want me to distract you anymore and I couldn't lay on a bed in _your_medbay and not think about _you_. So I went… exploring."

She carefully neglected to add the part about what had happened after that first step in her 'exploring.' As much as the twins got on her nerves, she really did not want to see them offlined or covered in dings from a million thrown wrenches. Listening to Sunstreaker cry for days about his damaged paint alone was a punishment far beyond what anyone deserved.

Those narrowed optics started to fill with concern. "Why would you need a mirror?"

She shrugged a shoulder, and the first trickles of a month's worth of insecurity started to escape her mental walls and drip into their bond. "I know my hair is gone," she said softly, running a hand over the short wispy ends that barely touched the bottom of her ear. "And I remember the pain in my face during the attack. I, uh, wanted to see how bad the damage is, and if I'm…" _A monster? Hideous? Bad enough to make the Phantom of the Opera and the Hunchback of Notre Dame say DAMN, I thought _we_ had it bad!_

She wasn't sure how much of that made it through the bond, or if it would even translate into something he could understand. But enough of it must have reached him because his finger gently lifted her chin to face him again. "Do you really think I would allow that to happen?"

"No," she admitted, feeling ashamed that she had thought as much and yet couldn't stop herself from thinking it still. The first traces of tears started to sting her eyes. "But I am human, Ratchet. We don't bounce back from things like you guys do. It's so easy for us to be disfigured for life that I can't help but worry."

"You are beautiful, Lydia. And always will be."

A lopsided grin tugged at her lips, if a bit strained, and she blinked back the tears. "Just wait until I am old and wrinkly and can't walk on my own. Then we'll see what you have to say."

"I will still maintain that you are beautiful and I will carry you anywhere you wish to go."

The love and sincerity that poured through the bond tore away her mental defenses. She found herself jumping up into his hand, smiling so wide she thought her face would crack. "Flatterer," she teased, allowing him to place her onto his shoulder. "Where are we going?"

Ratchet could not stop the flicker of worry that floated across his spark. He knew that she loved him, loved him with all her heart, and still he dreaded the coming conversation. Would she truly understand the lengths he had gone through to save her life? Would she forgive him for it?

"Ratchet?" she asked, placing a hand on his neck. That flicker of worry had not escaped her notice. "What's wrong? Where are we going?"

"We go to find your mirror," He replied, smothering that worry beneath his relief that she was well enough to try moving around. "And… to talk about what has happened."

The worry started to flow from her end, diluted by the sheer love and trust she held for him, but it was there nonetheless. "That doesn't sound good."

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On how much you truly value our bond."

Lydia shot him a sideways glance, trying to lighten the mood. "You do realize you just asked an accountant to tell you how much she values something," she smirked. "Are you ready to hear the long drawn-out mathematical explanation that truly states which side of the assets line I place our bond?"

His mouth plates started to curve into a smile as he turned towards her, scans kicking in automatically. The medic in him needed to ensure that her wounds were closed enough that exposure to outside air wouldn't—and then stopped. Something had flashed behind his optics, his sensors picking up trace amounts of an organic chemical residue on her skin, one so faint that he would have missed it completely had she not be sitting on his shoulder armor.

Lydia frowned at the sudden shift in his posture, watching as he sniffed at the air, a purely human action he had adopted. She knew that his scanners and sensors could pick up trace particles of anything in the air without the need for a physical response. What she didn't know was why his optic ridges drew down again in that frown she knew so well. The infamous frown that made mechs run for cover and liaisons, such as herself, reach for the bottle of painkillers from the headache that was sure to follow whatever it was he had to say next. Lydia braced herself, holding her breath.

"Why do you smell like flowers?" he asked bluntly, optics whirling as they continued to scan her, and then in turn scan his med-bay. The frown on his expressive face depended, becoming the set lines of his trademark temper. "Why is the paint marred on the doors? And what happened to several of my cabinets?"

Her eyes opened wide.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was a quiet meeting, as was befitting the severity of the information. It was also a secret meeting, having only three sentients in attendance. Optimus Prime had debated long and hard over who should attend and why. His decision to limit the flow of the incoming sensitive information had ultimately decided for him just who needed to be present. While he trusted Prowl, Ironhide, Ratchet and Ultra Magnus with his very spark, his processors had determined that they could be told at a later time. As could Director Keller and his team, if only to forestall the inevitable debate that would arise. For now, judging by the look on Sam's face, debate was the last thing they all needed.

Some secrets needed to be kept, after all, if only for the protection of those involved in them.

Major William Lennox sat on the edge of the human-sized chair, his normally pressed and snug fitting uniform jacket hanging open. A white, loose-fitting button-down dress shirt was worn beneath it, a silent testament to the fact that the human was still healing from his injuries. Only the tightness around the man's eyes and paleness to his flesh belied the pain he was feeling. But Will was a solider through and through, and as long as he could move his own arms, he would dress himself in uniform.

Samuel Witwicky mirrored the Major, hunching forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands folded together. The boy looked so much older, Optimus noted with a twinge of sorrow, like the past handful of years of the Autobot's presence on the planet had sped up his aging process. Gone was the lanky teen caught in the crossfire of a war he couldn't understand. Now a young man sat before him with eyes far more haunted than many of his kind should ever be.

It reminded him too much of Bluestreak, of watching a humble, peace-loving merchant transform into a warrior. That twinge of sorrow turned into a pang of guilt. If he could have reversed it all, found a way to take back the horror and the pain and the loss, he would have done it without question. Regardless of the cost to himself.

Optimus drug himself back from the twisty slope of what-could-have-been and tried not to frown. It was a difficult task, given the information that had just been handed to him and the unpleasant memories it stirred to life within his processors. The chosen messenger did not look too happy about it, either. Both he and the Major sat on chairs on top of the colossal ironwork desk, looking less happy than Optimus and just about as resigned to their fates as anyone could.

"And you are certain of this?" Lennox felt compelled to ask, knowing better than to question anything Sam brought to his attention and still doing it anyway.

Sam rubbed both hands across his face before leaning forward on his elbows again. "Absolutely. And trust me, I am not happy about it, either."

Optimus made a noncommittal sound. "This does not bode well. For any of us."

"Don't I know it," Sam took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I'd much rather be back at school, but the urgency of the matter wouldn't let me rest. I had to tell you, and it had to be to you directly. She's part of this now, Optimus, and I'm not sure where that leaves us."

Optimus glanced back at the data pad before him. Lydia's information flashed across the screen, courtesy of a rather resourceful Director Keller and a sulking Banachek. Everything from the day she had been born to when Ratchet had carried her broken form from Jetfire's hold played out before his optics. Her military record was brilliant, if a bit spotty. A drunken brawl here, a reprimand for disobeying direct orders there. But overall, her record was a testament to a soldier that believed in her cause and did her best to complete her missions with as minimal loss of life as she could muster.

And then there were the Sector Seven "Ice Files."

What was done to her by that group of humans was enough to make the energon in his systems boil. It was so much like what had been done to Prowl at the beginning of the war that Optimus felt like issuing an immediate pardon for the mech's actions. Prowl wouldn't see it as understanding, though, and would insist on full and immediate punishment. None are above the law, he had said time and again. Even now he refused to leave the base and had restricted his own activities to only those necessary. Punishing himself even as his Prime tried to keep it from happening.

Prowl, like Lydia, had proven to be a gifted and compassionate solider. The actions of those of his own kind, like those of Sector Seven, had been an unforgivable way to repay the unswerving service and loyalty freely given by them both.

"What, exactly, did the Primes say?" Will asked, glancing between the two.

"Well, I can't tell you their exact words," Sam admitted. "But I can tell you the, uh, impressions I got from them. They're not used to communicating with a human and as such a lot of what they say goes right over my head. Half of what they show me is done in images and through dreams or daydreams. But the gist of it was that Lydia's a key part of something now. What that something is… well, they don't know and most of them are not happy about it."

"Wait, wait," Will held up a hand, frowning anew. "They told you back in Egypt that it 'is and always has been your destiny' or something like that to be involved with the Autobots. You just said that she's part of it _now._ That sounds to me like something changed in their great cosmic plan, something even they didn't expect."

Sam pursed his lips. "I don't know. The wording implies that either something has changed with the anticipated flow of events like you said, or that something with her has changed specifically. Don't shoot the messenger here," he held up his hands at the way Will's expression changed. "Again, I get images that I barely understand and glyphs that I don't even have a clue about. But the Primes say that she's important somehow."

Will shook his head, leaning back on instinct and then bolting upright as the pain in his back rocketed through his skin. "So _they _don't know why she's important, and _we_ don't know why she's important, but someone, somewhere, thinks she is. That's not a lot to go on."

"An appropriate way to paraphrase the conversation," Optimus replied, lip plates twitching in an almost-smile as he glanced back to Sam. "You stated that most of the Primes are not pleased with this revelation."

"Yes," he nodded. "And this is the part that confuses me the most. Most of them seemed, I don't know, annoyed, maybe. Like they were agitated. But the others… I know this sounds crazy but I get the impression that she's talked to them. At least she's talked to two of them at any rate."

Both Will and Optimus stared at him a long moment, neither the mech nor the man blinking. Sam shook his head, holding up his hands again in helpless frustration. "I'm sorry. I wish I had more to go on."

"It is alright, Sam," Optimus soothed, staring down at the data pad once more. "I believe I may know a few of the answers to your riddle. However, I need time to consider and consult."

"You know, that sounds like a good idea," Will stated, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "I have a feeling we are making this more complicated than it has to be. This conversation has way too many 'impressions' and 'unknowns' for my liking. Let's go and get this straight from the horse's mouth."

"Meaning?" Sam prompted.

"Meaning we go and have a conversation with Lydia," Lennox climbed to his feet slowly, wincing as he did so. "You think they talked to her, so let's go ask her if they had. The worst that could happen is to have her look at us like we're crazy."

Optimus frowned again, his optics dimming and then brightening as he researched the turn of phrase the Major had used. "Ah, yes. I understand. But I must warn you not to upset her. Ratchet will not allow us to continue to question her otherwise."

Sam frowned this time. "Don't you think the severity of this information would allow a Prime to overwrite the Medic?"

"If only it were that simple," Optimus sighed.


	30. Chapter 30 Consequences

A/N: Hello everyone! I apologize for the long absence. Life has been a bit crazy around the Darkstar household of late, leaving very little time for me to write. I also understand that the holiday season has hit and that most folks are either busy with family or wrapping up the end of the semester (or both!). Hence, this chapter is not beta read at this time. Any mistakes are mine and mine alone. Feel free to heap the blame on my shoulders and not on my beta. :P She is fantastic! Pleas read Razorgaze's (my beta's) story "Our Debt." You won't regret it. I know I didn't. Incidentally, the intro to that story gave me the information I needed on Cybertronian time lines :D

I also wanted to say how grateful I am for how much support and love that is shown for this story. Over four hundred reviews! I am bouncing around in happy, dizzy circles. I cannot tell you how much I love the fact that you all love Lydia and her little world of craziness. I read every review, and though I do not have time due to work and family to reply to them, I take all the advice and comments into serious consideration. Without the feedback, this story would not be the way it is today, and for that you have my forever thanks and love! ::spreads the love!::

On a more serious note, I know some people are not happy with the darker turn that this story tends to take. I will state this, however: There is always sunshine to go with the dark in my fics. The ending will be a happy(ish?) one, but there would be no story without the dark twists, and no heroes without the tribulation to overcome. The bright would not be so bright without some darkness to contrast it. So... please keep that in mind when reading. ;)

One reader DID ask if I had any kind of inspiration to write this story. I will state that music is my main guide for this story. I have a Lydia and Ratchet playlist on my itunes. If anyone wants, I will post the songs that inspire and put me in the mood for this story. :D

Disclaimer: As ever, I do not own Transformers. I only own my OCs. Please do not sue. This is only for fun and I am not making any kind of money from it.

* * *

Her eyes were the same color again, both a glittering emerald green.

Lydia couldn't seem to get past that part. It had only been a couple of years since the events in Mission City, since the battle against Starscream that had cost the lives of her best friends and teammates Spiral and Eclipse. And yet that really did seem like a lifetime ago now. Hell, anything that happened before she had woken in the med bay of Diego Garcia just a month prior felt as if a thousand lifetimes had passed. She was different now, had known that the moment her eyes had met Ratchet's optics.

Thousands of secrets had whirled in those iridescent blue optics, but somehow that had been okay. In those moments when she had drawn her first conscious breath, had pulled into her lungs the familiar scents that she associated with him, everything had been okay. Perfect trust had filled her body, along with a strange sensation that she _knew_ him. Knew him on an all new level of awareness that had previously been missing from their relationship. Of course, before then she had known him with her mind and with her heart. One couldn't grow fondness and let that fondness turn into love without knowing the person in question in _some_ way. But this… this knowledge had come from somewhere else, from some part of her that she hadn't known existed until that moment.

Because now she could _feel _him, feel him as if she were a part of him and always had been. Feel him like she had felt Ratbat, only without the soul-searing hatred and loathing and intense rage that had wanted her body to twist away from the Decepticon even as her soul reached out in desperation. No, this time she had leapt—literally—into his hand the first moment her body had permitted the action. This time he had pulled her against his chest plating over where his spark would rest, instead of stabbing her in the chest. And, perhaps the most disturbing and yet oddly soothing part of this whole ordeal, was the fact that she had felt like a missing part of herself had snapped into place.

No cluster headache at his presence, no pain other than from newly healed injuries. Only peace and a sense of… of unification. Of coming home. Warmth had poured from her chest in ways she could never imagine, her thoughts feeling as if they had blended in harmony with her emotions and transferred to his spark. And wonder of all wonders, she had imagined that he had felt the exact same way, had done the exact same thing with his thoughts and feelings.

The rational part of her brain had attributed all of this to the massive amount of drugs pumped into her system to keep her from screaming in agony. And so she had let it all go. Even the kinship she had felt for Arcee and Grimlock, the warmth and instant recognition that flooded her chest when they had walked into medbay, though less intense than what she had felt with Ratchet but still strong nonetheless… she had tossed aside as simple happiness at being alive and with the sentients she cherished the most.

Now that she was on the mend, now that she was staring at a full length mirror at herself, all those random bits of worry and elation poured back into the forefront of her mind.

Ratchet stood back and watched with an impassive expression as she shed her hospital gown, standing nude before the mirror. Inside, his spark was held in such an iron grip of rigid control that he feared it would simply shatter and flicker out. This pressure and fear of her rejection felt as if it would make his systems just stop pulsing and he would fall to the ground where he stood. But he had to keep that control, however. He had to give her time to look over the modifications to her body, to assimilate what he had told her. And he could not—under any circumstances—let his own emotions flow between their bond.

This had to be her moment. She had to take in and accept the changes and truth on her own, without his judgements to color her opinion, or she would forever doubt her actions and feelings for the rest of her life. It wasn't a chance he was willing to take. So he stood quietly.

And watched. And hoped. And prayed.

Lydia lifted her right hand to the mirror, touching her reflection in the slick surface. Her left hand drifted across the tattered ends of her once long and glossy hair. It curled up now in a short if uneven curly cap, framing her angular face and giving her an elfin like appearance. The fact that she had lost weight in the intervening recovery time helped to give her a delicate and ethereal look, her eyes seeming larger than before, her cheekbones more pronounced. Next it strayed to her right ear, touching the shape of it as if searching for something out of the ordinary. Some parts of it had been replaced or so Ratchet had told her. The eardrum first and some parts of the outer cartilage had been rebuilt entirely. Rebuilt masterfully from what she could tell, blended with perfection with the rest of her skin. It felt as if her own flesh reacted to the touch and she shivered at the slight ticklishness of her caress.

Her hand continued its trek across her body, tracing along her cheek, following the almost minuscule lines of the burn marks. They were all but invisible now, but she could still see them, still feel the searing pain in her mind as the wind whipped the flaming strands of hair across her face during the fight. Ratchet had assured her that they the scars would fade altogether in enough time. But what about the memories that went with them? And did she want that physical representation to disappear completely?

What would serve to remind her that it wasn't all just some horrendous dream?

Fingertips traced down her lips, pausing at the new divot that neatly divided her bottom lip. It was a lot like Angelina Jolie's she mused, though she doubted the actress had to go through fiery combat to earn her trademark lip shape. And then her hand slipped down to her chest, to the new "x" shaped scar over her heart. Warmth beat there, a heat that wasn't normal for a human. It wasn't unpleasant at all, but it was… different.

Different, like her left arm now.

She held up that hand to her face, twisting it and her arm over as much as she could. The scar tissue was gone, the skin slightly pinker on that limb than on the other and less flexible when touched. And starting from her middle finger and flowing down her palm up the underside of her arm almost to the pit where it met the shoulder, was another faint and fading scar. She flexed the fingers there, wondering at the way those digits seemed more sensitive than the others. It was so unreal.

But it _was_ real. It was part of her now. Her hand. Her ear. Her eye. Her right leg from the knee down.

All her. And yet… not all her original parts.

"It's so strange," she said aloud, her voice whisper-soft. "I can still feel my heartbeat, even though you said the replacement heart doesn't need to beat anymore."

Ratchet let go of his control just a bit, allowing the tiniest tendril of love and reassurance to float between them. "I set it to beat," he said quietly, as if afraid a louder tone would frighten her. "We tried everything to repair and keep the original organ, but the spark resting in the pacemaker refused to interact fully with the organic part. We… we were unsure what would happen if we removed the spark itself. That left only one option."

"Removing the heart," she supplied in that same whisper-soft tone, still staring transfixed at her reflection.

"Removing the heart," he nodded, holding back the feelings of helplessness that washed across him. He wanted to be angry, to yell at her like he yelled at any other mech that dared second-guess what he did to save their sorry afts. But this was Lydia. This was his mate. And she was also a human, one who was forced yet again to undergo surgeries involving alien components without her consent. "And replacing it with a device of Cybetronian design, one that would allow the spark in your chest to continue to survive and would also pump your blood through your body."

"And my eye?" her voice quavered finally, her hand shaking as it rose back up to the orb. "Was it really… Did it come from Megatron… Did I…"

He reached for her when she collapsed inward on herself, her arms hugging her shoulders. Her tears fell against his hands and all his self-control snapped. Love, sorrow, the need to be forgiven, the hope that she would have the strength to accept their life together… it all danced between them like unheard music. She clung to his hand, her sadness like a blade wedged into his spark.

"I'm sorry," she cried, burying her face into his palm and clinging to his fingers. Cried and finally let loose some of the grief and horror bottled inside at what she had survived. "I'm so sorry. Please, oh god please tell me I didn't betray you all. Please tell me I didn't transmit anything to Megatron through his parts. Please… please don't let me be the cause of anyone's suffering."

"Be at ease, Lydia," he whispered soothingly, holding her against his chest. "No one holds you responsible for anything. You did not know. We did not know."

"We should have," she sniffled, looking up into his optics. Her new green eye began to glow slightly. "Ratchet, we should have known. _I_ should have known. I should have trusted you the moment the headaches returned and became worse. I should have told you."

His lip plates drew down into a slight frown. "And broken your human laws?" he vented air gently, just enough to show his annoyance without making it seem as if it was directed at her. "Be sensible, little one. You were under orders not to discuss any of this. And you are just as stubborn as I am. I doubt I could have pulled the information from your processors with a welding torch and a prybar if I tried."

That put a bit of a smile back onto her lips, not much of one, but just a touch. The tears eased. "The others know about the implants now, don't they?"

"I have a feeling that some have known about them long before Starscream's attack," he nodded at her lifted eyebrows, knowing she wished him to elaborate. "Optimus for one, and Prowl, for another, has hinted that they knew more than they were supposed to on certain topics. Even then, they respected your privacy."

She nodded at that, trying to push aside the choking fear that she had betrayed the beings she had come to love as her own family. "Why didn't Arcee and Grimlock mention my eye, then? They had to have noticed that it wasn't blue anymore."

Ratchet shrugged a shoulder, putting her back down on the Autobot-sized conference table. "Arcee is your friend. She would have respected your damaged condition and not wished to cause you further discomfort by pointing out any changes. Grimlock… It is anyone's guess as to what goes on in that pea-sized processor of his," he took a seat at the table, hands loosely cupped to make a chair of some kind for her to sit upon. "Now calm your systems, Lydia, and think it through. If you had done anything to jeopardize our safety, do you think you would be here with me now?"

Lydia bit her bottom lip, slipping back into the hospital gown. "No," she was forced to admit. "No, I would be in the brig next to Wheeljack, I suppose."

His optics narrowed rapidly, his frown twisting his face plates as certain words of their conversation finally caught up with him. He had only a moment to kick himself at how his love and worry over her conditions had made him oblivious to certain aspects of their conversation. But only a moment before the aggravation overpowered even his concern for her mental health. "How did you know Wheeljack was in the brig? And how in Primus's name did Arcee and Grimlock see your new eye?" He watched her flinch, felt her fear spike to an all-time high, and forced himself to shove aside his irritation again. "Never mind. There is enough going on to stress about. We'll talk about that and what happened to my medbay when the meeting is over."

"Meeting?" she echoed, feeling the thread of trepidation that filled him at the word. "What meeting, Ratchet?"

"Optimus wishes to discuss in detail your current treatment plan and the changes that have been made."

He rose to his feet, offering her his hand. She backed away from it, her own worries and fears momentarily forgotten in light of his. "You just said that he and Prowl already knew about the implants but were okay with them. What aren't you telling me? And why does it have you worried?"

"None of us were ever 'okay' with the idea of what was done to you," he corrected. "And it's really—"

She crossed her arms over her chest, the glow in her green optic growing more intense by the heartbeat. "If you so much as process the idea of saying 'it's not your concern' to me, you better rethink that quickly. You gave me your spark, bright eyes. I'm keeping it. Period. End of fragging list. Whatever it is that has you worried is _very_ much my concern."

The waves of stubborn protectiveness and love from his mate nearly slammed into him like a physical force. He almost took a step backward, his optics narrowing for the fight even as the fierce pride in how she would push aside the most terrifying experience of her life in order to stand at his side echoed in their bond. Her fear was still there, of course, but it was nothing in comparison to the thought of something happening to him. And, as was normal for his Lydia, fear only lasted so long before it turned into anger.

"And if I said just that?" He challenged.

She snorted, not even bothering to be ladylike. "Then you'll have to deal with being ignored," she answered, walking over to the edge of the table and peering over it. As if looking for a way down. "And I'll get the information some other way. But rest assured, my love, I _will_ get what I want."

"Then listen," he said softly, resuming his seat. "There is more to tell you. Where your parts—and your spark—come from, and what they may cost us both in the long run."

~*~*~*~*~*~

He did not want to do this.

Optimus Prime stood at the doorway to the brig, almost as if his frame refused to respond to what his processors were telling it to do. It was just a door, he told himself over and over again. Just the door to the brig. How many times had he opened it without a thought, usually intent on what he was going to have to do to the twins (either set) or trying his best not to laugh out loud at what said twins had done to earn the brig this time around. It was only a door, he reminded himself once more, and still he could not bring himself to trigger the opening mechanism.

Because today it wasn't just a door. Today it was the last barrier between where he stood as a friend, and where he stood as a Prime. Once he crossed that threshold, he would have to leave Optimus behind and pick up the mantle of Prime. He could not be there to comfort his friend, to aid and advise him as to the best course of action. That time had passed.

Primus, he wished so hard that he could bring that time back.

Beside him and to his left stood Ultra Magnus, his metal arms crossed over his wide armored chest. One glance at his features showed that he was about as happy to be there as Optimus, himself. But Magnus knew the law, respected it even, and knew this duty was necessary. Because of his respect for it, and his grudging respect for Wheeljack, he had volunteered for this duty. He would stand with pride beside the accused mech, and would see that whatever was done proceeded with compassion and the honor due him for his years of fighting for what was right.

Kup, the ancient warrior mech turned adviser, stood to his right. He had stopped his grumbling the moment they had turned down the hallway leading towards the brig, and Optimus found himself longing for the rambling old stories that the mech always seemed to have on hand. Today, however, Kup was silent, a brooding monolith of sorrow in his green camouflage coloring. Optimus had debated long and hard about selecting the newly arrived mech for this duty, but in the end had given way to the extensive experience that he had with alien species—and interactions with said alien species. If anything, he might be able to bring a bit of justice to this unjust situation.

For the law was the law, and they could not afford to put any mech above it. Not even a beloved friend.

_Primus, please_, he pleaded silently. _Let me find a way out of this. Please._

Silver armored fingers touched the identification plate, the doors parting with a hateful hydraulic hiss. Wheeljack lay back on the recharge birth, arms folded comfortably behind his helm, optics dim as he chased down random thoughts within his processors. He hummed as he did so, a human habit that had delighted him from the moment he had heard one of the communications technicians performing it during a routine maintenance. The tune was one he was all too familiar with, a tune that nearly tore out his spark. The theme to Back to the Future, Wheeljack's favorite human movie.

True to form, Wheeljack did not react when the three mechs entered the anteroom, arraying themselves before the cell with Optimus at the front and the others flanking him. Optimus felt his spark drop that much more, noting the content expression on the inventor's face plates. Whatever it was that filled his thoughts, it obviously brought him joy.

It was going to make this that much harder.

"Wheeljack, old friend," Optimus called softly.

Wheeljack jerked slightly, optics taking a moment to reach full brightness as he quickly finished whatever calculations he had going and stored the data for later. "Optimus," He sat up quickly, sidebars flashing in a pleased way.

Until he noted the other two mechs standing slightly behind his leader in an official way. Apprehension replaced the hope in his optics, and the mech slowly climbed to his feet. He approached the energon bars, his stance and sidebars carefully neutral. There he stood at full attention.

"Yes, my Prime," he answered formally, using Cybertronian.

Optimus vented softly, his optics showing is utter regret. But only for a moment before he put back on the heavy weight of dignity and responsibility that came with his station.

"Wheeljack," he began, the regal baritone of his voice somehow enhanced by his native tongue. "A council of your peers has met to discuss the charges against you, namely the attempted offlining of the human designated Thomas Andrew Banachek. Though I am Prime, and though I have within my realm as granted to me by the Matrix of Leadership the power to met out justice as I see fit, out of respect for your longstanding service and loyalty to the Autobot cause I have asked for a tribunal of three to hear your case."

"Are you ready to proceed, son?" Kup asked gently.

Wheeljack never flinched, his systems registering only the slightest increase of air intake to betray his worry. "I am."

Kup glanced at Optimus and then at Ultra Magnus, and earning a nod from each, took a step towards Wheeljack. "Son, you do understand why you are here, right?"

"I do," Wheeljack answered, sidebars flashing with his shame and sorrow. "I lost control of my temper, and my actions frightened one of our human allies."

"And why did you loose control?"

Wheeljack frowned slightly, glancing over at Optimus as if searching for a sign as to what to say. When he found nothing of help, he looked back to his questioner. "I am certain you have all the data available, but I'll explain myself if needed. The human designated Banachek harmed my friend. What he did to her was and is unspeakably cruel in both human and Cybertronian laws. He went further to insult her sacrifices to her race by removing her designation and referring to her like an experiment. More than that, it was implied that he wished she was still under his control to experiment on further. I could not and would not let that continue."

"Was your friend under his control at the time?"

Anger started to rise in Wheeljack to just think about that situation, his sidebars reflecting that. "No," he admitted. "She was in Ratchet's care at the time. However, the reason she was in Ratchet's care was directly related to what he had done to her."

Kup frowned at that, his optics fading as he reviewed the files given to him. Finally, he nodded. "Would you have hurt the human had your Prime not intervened?"

"Of course not!" Wheeljack snapped, optics whirling as they took in all three of the assembled mechs, his anger evaporating and shocked outrage taking its place. "I'm an inventor, not a murderer. I create. I do _not _destroy… purposefully, anyway. And while I agree that I wanted to scare him, to give him a fraction of the taste of terror that Lydia will live with for the rest of her life, I would not have offlined him. I would not have harmed him."

"Your actions indicated otherwise," Ultra Manus put in, pinning the inventor with a hard stare. "Humans are now moving around us with extra care. All the years of work we have put down in order to earn their trust was almost undone by your actions."

Wheeljack met that stare. "If it had been different, if it had been a mech doing experiments on somebot as close to you as your own spark, what would you have done?"

"That is not the case here," Magnus countered. "A mech would have been covered under our own laws. This situation is dealing with cross-species laws. You should have held your temper."

"Me?" Wheeljack asked incredulously. "Why am I the one behind bars when Ironhide spins his cannons at anyone and everybot at every chance?"

"They are used to his antics, knowing that he is bluffing—" Mangus began.

"That is no different from what I did," Wheeljack snapped. "And before you pass judgment on me, you better realize that I had every right to be angry. So did Prowl. Or have you forgotten his actions, too?"

"Enough," Optimus cut in, unable and unwilling to watch this go on any longer. "I will not have this degenerate into finger pointing. Wheeljack has brought to light several valid points and we would be remiss in our duties if we did not take them into consideration. Given that, tribunal members, how do you vote?"

"Not guilty," Kup replied instantly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I have seen evil, Prime. In my lifetime I have seen the faces of murderers and spark-eaters and Primus knows worse that I won't share with anyone so long as my spark still shines. I'll take those horrors to the Matrix with me. But this kid… he made a mistake based on loyalty and honor. If it was up to me, I'd give him a lecture or two, put him on restricted movements like Prowl is doing—to himself, I might add—and send him on his way."

Optimus nodded, feeling hope start to lift his heavy spark. First from Kup's words, and secondly from the plan forming in his processors, based largely on Wheeljack's own defense. He looked to Magnus. "And you?"

Magnus frowned deeply, hands curling and uncurling at his sides. "Not guilty of the primary charge, of course," He snapped. "And if it were up to me, I would be applauding him for his actions, not staring at him through brig bars. But it's not. And it's not up to any of us. The law, Prime, it's in the hands of the law. The humans are waiting for you to follow through with that law. If we don't, they will never trust our words again."

"I know the law," he replied. "And I also know that the law itself is useless without the will to enforce it. But it is not justice unless the law is tempered with compassion."

He turned his stare back at Wheeljack. "I agree with both members of this Tribunal." He drew himself to his full height. "Autobot Wheeljack, this Tribunal finds you not guilty on the charge of attempted offlining of a human supporter. However, this Tribunal finds you guilty of showing a lack of restraint in view of the humans. I leave the choice of punishment to you. You will either surrender immediately to three stellar cycles offline, or take three stellar cycles in exile."

Wheeljack blinked his optics, emotional colors dancing through his sidebars faster than the mechs could decipher. "No matter which choice I take, will I be able to explain things to Lydia first? I do not want her to get this information second-hand. She will blame herself, and then she will become angry. I do not wish to see that happen."

Optimus nodded. "Of course. Time will be given to align your affairs before the sentence is carried out."

Again, Wheeljack took a moment to consider his options. Three stellar cycles was three Cybertronian months. But one stellar cycle was equal to 7.5 earth months, give or take a few days. That was almost two of their earth years. And with the short-lived lives of his human friends, that was a long time. A lot could happen. The offlining would most likely be handled by Ratchet, and he would be left comfortably in his quarters. Watched over and protected.

The exile presented dangers he would rather not think about. "I choose the offlining."

"So recorded and agreed upon," Optimus strode forward, keying open the cell door. "Now I need you to report to your lab."

Wheeljack almost missed a step at that, turning to face his Prime. Wasn't he going to be… "I-I'm not sure I heard that right."

"You did," Optimus allowed himself a tiny smile as only Wheeljack was in view to see it. "And I have also spoken with the human authorities. We are all in agreement to suspend the sentence to a later time. The lives of the humans hunted by Starscream are worth more to them than this incident. We need all our best people on this mission. Now gather the data you acquired from your study of Lydia's implants and meet me in the conference room. Kup will be your escort in the presence of humans until this issue is resolved. Like Prowl, you are on restricted access. Dismissed."

"Yes, my Prime," Wheeljack replied at once, colors of relief flooding his sidebars.

Ultra Magnus watched as Wheeljack and Kup exited the brig. Only then did he give a sidelong look at his Prime and spark-brother. "Did you_ really_ talk to the humans about this?"

This time, he didn't bother to hide the grin. "I did not speak falsely, Magnus," Optimus replied. "Before coming here, I did speak with the human authorities."

"Just not on this particular issue?" Magnus inquired, a wicked grin splitting his face wide.

Optimus shrugged. "As the humans say, Morshower owes me a few favors. Given that he witnessed the entire incident, I believe he will be amendable to my terms. Especially after I convince Ratchet to wave his right as Lydia's mate to hold Banachek on trial as well."

Magnus laughed as he headed towards the brig door. "Better you delivering that verdict than me. It's not going to be my armor banged up by wrenches after that conversation. And, for the record, well played."

"There is more to being a Prime than physical prowess," Optimus replied. "Some mental footwork is required from time to time."

"That's why you are the Big Bot, and I a simple solider," the other laughed. "Still, I think I have the better end of that deal…"


	31. Chapter 31 Answers

A/N: Greetings! I have to apologize for being soooo behind on this story. I know I try to post at least once a week on this particular story, and I do that as the best and most sincere "Thank You!" that I can give for all the continued reviews and support. :D Truly and completely, you all have made this story what it is. It would be nothing without the reviews and the comments, even the ones that point out my mistakes! I love all my reviewers and my reviews. I could not have done this without you.

As I said, I try to post weekly, however this holiday season was more intense than before. More family around this time, more people wanting to spend time, and then more food! It was glorious chaos and absolutely amazing fun. I can only hope that each and every one of you had an equally memorable time. :) And speaking of Holiday, it's only fair that Beta's get them, too! I want to thank Razorgaze for her continued support and help. Go read her fic if you get the chance. It's called "Our Debt" and it's very good. This chapter, however, was beta'ed by lil ol' me. So please forgive the errors.

I had several requests last time for a post about the songs I used as inspirations per chaper to write this story. Considering this is chapter 31 (I so can't believe we made it this far! YAY!), that would be a lot of songs to post. So I'll start by posting the songs for the first five chapters. I'll do the next five with the next, and so on and so forth until I post the songs for the current chapter in the A/N section of each chapter. I hope that is agreeable for everyone. If not, just skip to the story. I haven't given up on it, I swear! Keep in mind I have an insane love of music so the songs will cover many different genres and time periods. Music is my passion, only second to writing.

Chapter 1: Arrival  
You Shook Me All Night Long - AC/DC  
Walk this Way - Run DMC and Aerosmith

Chapter 2: Confrontation  
Dangerous - Roxette

Chapter 3: Truce  
Mysterious Ways - U2

Chapter 4: Mystery  
Hurt - Christina Aguilera  
About Her - Malcolm McLaren  
Precious Pain - Melissa Etheridge

Chapter 5: Frustration  
Dangerous Type - Letters to Cleo

Disclaimer: As ever, I do not own Transformers or the songs listed above. This is only for fun. Please do not sue!

* * *

He could tell almost before he walked into the room that something was wrong.

Anger drifted in the air, a seething roiling scent that registered not in his olfactory sensors, but in one that resonated deep within his core. Battle programs set to readiness, his weapons a nano-klik away from subspacing into existence. Warily he stepped into the room, a kind of dread welling in his spark that had nothing to do with physical combat and everything to do with a remembered resentment. It was a sensation that only Elita could cause in him after the worst of their fights… and the moment he viewed the two occupants of the conference room, he immediately understood where that emotion was coming from and why.

Frustration joined the reek of anger next, nearly slamming into his processors like an iron fist. And yet he felt amusement well in his spark instead of annoyance, a kind of amusement born of knowing a situation all too well, and finding a perverse pleasure in seeing someone else going through it for a change. How well he knew that particular frustration, that particular anger that radiated from the female in circuit-searing waves, having been on the receiving end of that kind of upset many a time. Having, himself, experienced that particular brand of frustration more times than he cared to remember.

It wasn't written all over their body posture, Optimus noted with a touch of approval. For all the outside world could perceive, his Chief Medical Officer and his human Budget Liaison were the picture of icy calm. He would like to have used the human expression that 'not a hair was out of place' on either of them, however that wasn't the case with the human. Lydia's normally shoulder-length hair was short, curled up on her head in a look that many of her kind would call cute and 'pixie-like.' Even to optics untrained in human grooming habits, he could tell that she had taken care to have it cut and styled, trying to bring a shape to what was left of her hair after the battle.

Lydia was dressed in one of her usual suits, this one a deep, deep scarlet with pants instead of a skirt. And on her feet were what he could only assume was another pair of expensive human foot coverings in a burnished golden hue. 'Designer shoes' Lennox had explained to him when he inquired as to why Lydia had once ridden inside Grimlock's jaws rather than walk across the base. The monsoon storms had come early and the female had flat-out refused to slog through the muddy ground in her expensive Manolo Blahniks. The pair the human wore today would have cost about a month's pay, and were 'enough to make Sarah cry with envy' or so Lennox had said.

He made a mental note to himself to add 'shoes' onto the ever-growing list of things not to touch if one wanted to avoid the wrath of human females. On that list so far was chocolate, jewelry (diamond stone jewelry in particular), flowers (both cut and growing), coffee (though that one seemed to be a cross-gender item for the humans), and fingernails. One should never, under any circumstances, touch a female human's nails. They cried worse than Sunstreaker about the supposed damages and chips to their nail paint.

It made no sense to him. But then again the fact that Ratchet and Lydia were obviously upset with each other made even less sense to him. He wondered idly what the mech had done to anger her.

Lydia stood on the Cybertronian conference table, arms folded across her chest, one Prada-bedecked foot tapping in impatience. She looked the picture of cool strength, if a bit too thin from her ordeal. Her coloring was not quite right, though he had a feeling she had chosen that particularly colored suit in order to hide that fact. The red played up her hair and eye color, and made the paleness of her flesh muted somehow in comparison to those facts.

Ratchet stood behind her, muttering about the stupidity of a need for a Cybertronian-sized conference table, complete with matching chairs. It was a waste of materials, and yet they had to abide by it or risk insulting their human hosts.

He knew as well as anyone that the Autobots did not tire of standing like their human counterparts. They had no organic tissues that needed fluids to constantly circulate through and their designs did not limit their time erect based on how locking joints could cut off that circulation of preciously needed fluids. Their foot pads did not ache, either, unless there was a plasma burn through them from a Deception… or a fragged off femme using one's old rifle. That thought did make him smile.

And speaking of fragged off femmes…

_Not even mated for a joor and already they are fighting,_Ultra Magnus sent on a tight-beam comm. channel as he walked over to where Optimus stood observing.

_Surprised they waited that long_, Ironhide added, one metal armored finger rising to trace the sequence of glyphs along the side of his helm thoughtfully. A bot didn't need to know that the sequence spelled out Chromia's name, nor that the mech was thinking things not suitable for polite conversation, to understand the look in his optics. The action hid his rueful grin, however, and that had been the point. _Chromia and I had our first mated spat barely a nano-klik after our ceremony._

_Yeah, but for you two that's foreplay before sparking_, Sunstreaker grumbled. _And thanks for the image sequences I never wanted. Next time encrypt your fragging channel, Magnus. Going to take me forever to scrub out the file of Ironhide and Chromia and—_

_Teach you to eavesdrop on private conversations_, Magnus grinned fiercely. _What exactly were you doing listening in on a Prime channel anyway?_

Sunstreaker winced, rubbing at his optics as if his metal fingers could somehow slide behind the orbs and tear out that bit of memory space without causing permanent damage. _Apparently picking up image arrays that are going to scar me for the rest of my life_.

_Keep picking them up_, Ironhide warned, the tell-tale sound of his cannons coming online filling the air. _And I'll be certain to scar more than just your memory core._

_Almost worth a blast to the core if it makes _that_ thought go away_, Sunstreaker shuttered, moving quickly over to where Lydia and Ratchet stood. He made no attempt cover the act of taking shelter by the human and medic, knowing that Ironhide might shoot near Ratchet, but would never fire that close to a human. _Notice I said 'almost worth' it. I'm not that stupid._

_Nor am I_, Ratchet interjected, optics narrowing at all four of the mechs. _Sunstreaker, get away from my mate before I punt you for distance._

_Not that you would get the chance to catch me_, Sunstreaker smirked.

_Say that again when it's time for your next upgrade._

The mirth washed out of the younger mech's expression, a new-found wariness of the cranky medic and his human mate replacing the cocky ego. _Fine, fine_, he said, waving a hand in a dismissive way as he crossed back over to his twin, still out of the targeting line for Ironhide's weapons. _Like I have nothing better to do than imagine 'Hide and Chromia or you and your mate sparking_.

And maybe it was because he was so spiteful, or maybe just because he was bored, he sent out a purposeful blast of data to all the gathered mechs and femmes in the room. The data contained in that packet wasn't exactly coded for general consumption.

Lydia's eyes widened and then she narrowed them, turning a venomous glare at the twins. "You're a sick mech, Sunstreaker. You know that? Just a sick, sick mech. Like that kind of joining would ever be possible for a mech and a human."

The entire room froze, all optics save for Ratchet's focusing on the glaring human. It took Lydia a moment to realize they were all staring at her. "Surprise," she said with all mock-cheerfulness. "Yes, I can hear you now. And yes, Sunstreaker, I _heard_you. I heard all of you, in fact. Now are you going to continue to send bad human-Cybertronian porn back and forth, or are you ready to find out how and why?"

~*~*~*~*~*~

Lydia had to admit that that was one hell of a way to silence a room. It took less than a second for the mechs present to take their seats and then less than five minutes for the remaining mechs and humans to join them. Human-sized chairs had been provided, lined up along the back of the table, each and every one of those seats filled. So many of the Autobots had chosen to attend this particular meeting that they lined the back wall and filled almost every available space. It almost made her wonder who was left to guard the base.

Almost, that was. Other little problems seemed to be taking up her attention at the moment.

She sat between Director John Keller and the one called Sam Witwicky. Beside Keller sat Glen and Maggie, and beside her sat SASF Graham. On the other side of Sam was Major Lennox and beside him was Sergeant Major Epps. Tom Banachek was a sulking pale form on the other side of Epps, looking for the world like he wanted to take aim and kill every single living being in the room.

For once she thought he might be pleased to be part of their team. After all, they were discussing the ramifications of further or advanced Cybertronian implants to the human body and mental state. And hadn't the initial reports stated that Banachek was one of the more staunch supporters of the Transformers during the Mission City Incident? Possibilities swam through her consciousness, scenarios playing at rapid speed to try and figure out just what would have made this man change his mind about the Autobots.

Sighing to herself, she let those thoughts trail to the back of her mind, her eyes once again surveying the room. It was odd, she reflected, to see things with her new eye. For one, the cluster headaches were gone. Completely and utterly gone, as if her body had finally stopped fighting the implant and had learned virtually overnight to coexist with it. For another, she could see better than 20/20 now, when before her implanted eye had only given her 20/10. Still, the sharper, clearer images came with their own little sorts of problems.

Lydia shifted in her seat for the millionth time, glad that no one seemed to take offense to her movements. Not that they could pick on her for what she'd been through. Nor could they pick on her and not pick on Lennox, either. He, too, shifted in his seat, though his actions were due to his physical wounds. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, the skin around his eyes tight and drawn, the outward manifestation of the pain he still felt.

Burn injuries were the worst, she knew, having experienced them herself. They took forever to heal and hurt the entire time. Topical applications of pain medicine, and even the pill form only served to take the edge off the throbbing ache. And after the healing process, there was the scarring process, and the attempt to get inflexible scar tissue to bend and move as needed. The physical therapy to get that to happen was almost worse than the wound itself.

Her heart went out to him, and yet at the same time she was grateful. No one was noticing her movements too much since Lennox seemed to be shifting the same.

But he wasn't… at least not for the reasons she was, and that made her feel slightly guilty.

Her eyes kept drifting over to her left and her right, her mind filling with white noise each and every time she resisted that urge. Maggie sat off to her right, and slightly behind her on that side of the table sat Prowl. She couldn't be entirely sure, but there was some kind of connection between them, something that she could sense and almost see in the air. It didn't come from the woman, she instinctively knew. No, it came from the mech. Like… like looking at a physical manifestation of protective energy. Prowl's energy signature permeated the woman, drenching her being in a silvery net-like projection of… well… there was no other way to say it than protection. Friendship.

The same wrapped around Sam, though this projection came from Bumblebee. Only it shone much stronger against Sam than it was about Maggie. She ruled out the idea of prolonged exposure to either bot as the source. Otherwise Lennox and Epps would practically be a beacon of pure silver light as well. No, there had to more to it than that.

_Far be it from me to interrupt your daydreaming, but you might consider paying attention_, the loving rebuke drifted across her thoughts. Lovingly sarcastic rebuke, but loving nonetheless. _Since this involves you personally._

She jerked in her seat, blushing faintly as she did so. _I'm trying. Something's… not right._

_What do you mean?_ Concern flowed over their bond even as the Medic continued his presentation without interruption, armored hands gesturing to the images projected against the wall. Multitasking at it's finest.

Lydia resisted the urge to smirk. _Calm down. It's not me._

_Then who?_

_It's Sam…. And Maggie, I think._

Blue optics scanned the room, locking first onto Sam and then Maggie. She felt the tale-tell prickle of a light scan, watched as Sam merely raised an eyebrow and Maggie rubbed at her arms, glancing around in confusion a moment. Prowl shifted in his seat, eyebrow ridges drawing downward in slight annoyance as he pinned Ratchet with a rather unfriendly look. Still, the medic continued his lecture as if nothing in the world was wrong.

_They are fine. What makes you think something's wrong._

_I… my eyes can't stop staring at them. And I can feel something, like a… an energy web coming from Bumblebee and from Prowl and—_

_From Prowl?_ There was a splash of amusement at that comment. _That is unexpected but not a reason to be concerned. You sense their energy signatures, nothing more._

_Energy signatures? _

She got the impression that he was about to snarl something at her for not understanding what, to him, was so basic that an orn-old sparkling could comprehend. _Dial it back, bright eyes, or just wait until we are alone. If you think the screaming fit I had at you earlier today was bad, I'll show you what having a true Italian temper means._

His optics brightened slightly, again the only indication that he was carrying on a mental conversation while verbally speaking. _Your anger at me is still misdirected. I did what I had to in order to save your life. Or do you regret that? Never mind. I can feel that you still believe yourself in the right. We WILL talk about that later. As for your query, suffice it to say that you have your own energy signature now, Lydia. Otherwise you would glow from mine to our eyes. _

She raised an eyebrow before she could stop herself, schooling her features to cool neutrality as she pretended to listen to the presentation. Still, she managed to pump quite a bit of mental acid into her thoughts. Misdirected? Misdirected? I don't know how much you really understand about human nature, but I think it would be fairly obvious that I'd rather die than have you save my life and then be forced-offlined because of it. So yeah, we will talk about this later. And are you saying that Sam and Maggie are marked somehow?

Ratchet hesitated a moment, torn between the urge to continue their fight or to try once again to change the subject. Wisdom prevailed over annoyance, else their private conversation become a verbal one. And this wasn't the place to have a mated spat in any form. _Yes, but not like you mean. Remember how we can identify each other due to the energies of our sparks?_

_Yes. That's part of how you know a Decepitcon from an Autobot. It's also why I had the headaches. The Decepticon part interacting so much with the Autobot energies you all give off._

_Correct. We wear our energy signatures like you wear emblems of your nations or name tags. When we make a friend or care about a sentient, that energy transfers with our emotions. Marking that sentient as recognizable as friendly. _

_I get it. So Prowl and Maggie are friends like Sam and 'Bee are friends. And that energy signature is like a friendship wave, a greeting of sorts._

Pride and love flowed through the bond. _Exactly._

Some of her anger melted away under those emotions. _And I don't radiate with anyone's energy because I have my own?_

_Again, correct. You have a spark. Your spark automatically registers the energies of myself, Grimlock, Arcee and others based on your friendships with them. Sam and Maggie do not have sparks. They carry only the energy signatures that are projected onto them. Without a spark to register that energy, it will eventually fade without prolonged exposure._

_So that's why Sam is as bright as the sun and Maggie twinkles like a distant star?_

_Yes. Now brace yourself. Time for the question and answer portion._

Again she shifted in her seat, eyes glancing casually in Sam's direction. She frowned. _But wait. Sam is different. He glows like—_

_Sam is a special case. I will tell you about that later. Now hush._

Lydia forced back the curses and did as she was told, rising slowly to her feet and turning to face the assembled room. "I know you have questions," she began, letting her stare touch all those present. "We'll answer as best as we can. And if there is any punishment to be had, we'll take it together. Now, there are a few ground rules to this. There are some questions we simply will not answer. I hope you have the tact and grace not to ask them."

She glared at Sunstreaker and Sideswipe just to drive the point home. Sunstreaker looked sick at the thought, and Sideswipe gave his best 'who me?' expression. She spared them her trademark ladylike snort, returning her gaze to the room… and mentally braced herself.

"You carry a shard spark," Ironhide was the first to state.

Lydia decided to treat that like a question. "Yes, I do," she began. "Ratchet gave a very detailed and technical explanation of what happened to me. I'll sum it up this way: When Ratbat stabbed me with the All-Spark shard, the energy in it affected the pace-maker in my heart. Instead of bringing it to full sentience, it instead created a holding case out of it and transferred a spark. When I died—" She stumbled a bit over that, feeling the helpless horror flowing from her mate at the very thought of it. She cleared her throat before continuing, sending waves of love back across their bond. "When I died, that spark was in danger of dying, too. It, for lack of a better term, bonded to what was left of my life force. It kept me alive when I should have died."

"And there was no way to remove it without killing her," Ratchet added sternly, almost daring those in the room to second-guess his actions or motives. "When attempting to remove the pace-maker, I determined that the 'holding case' for the spark kept her alive but also destroyed the tissues around it. A mechanical heart was needed in order to bond with the spark case and ensure her continued functionality. As well as other parts."

"Those other parts you speak of," Keller replied, taking off his glasses and rising to his feet. "Those were necessary as well?"

"Those other parts," Wheeljack cut in, sending a command to the slide projector to change the images to those of various Cybertronian pieces. Even to a human eye, it wasn't hard to tell the human replicated pieces from the Cybertronian ones. The craftsmanship was just that much better. "Replaced the parts that Sector Seven not-so-kindly put into her while playing Frankenstein with her life the first time. Removing those parts also showed tissue degeneration on a rapid scale. Those parts had to be replaced as well to keep her alive."

"Yes, Ratchet explained that rather well. I just need a clarification on that," Keller continued. "You replaced only the parts necessary to ensure life. Nothing new was added?"

"Absolutely not," Ratchet growled. "I am not in the habit of turning living creatures into science experiments."

Keller sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I can understand that you are justly upset over the use of your… uh… parts… in one of us. No doubt you see that as a breech of your treaty with us—"

"Is that what you think?" Ratchet asked, the flabbergasted tone in his voice unmistakable. The old medic was truly and utterly perplexed by the human's reaction. "You honestly think we are upset because you used Cybertronian parts and didn't talk to us about it first?"

Keller lifted his eyebrows, flicking a glance at the brooding Banachek before looking back to the equally brooding medic. "Honestly? Yes."

Clicking and whirling sounds were heard throughout the room, so much so that Lydia placed her hands to her ears, wincing. "Hey, hey! Slow it down, folks. Remember, human mind but Cybertronian parts. I can't tune out a channel like you all can. I just hear what I hear. And I'm new at all this. The chatter is very hard for me to tune out at this stage."

Again the room was blanketed in thick silence, humans and Autobots alike gaping in her direction. Ratchet cleared his vocal processor, his optics staring hard at any that met his gaze.

"You humans are terribly misinformed, even about your own species," he grumbled, pinning Keller with a hard stare. "To answer your question: _no_. We are not upset in the slightest that you used parts from us to fix yourselves. What fills us with anger is that you did not as _HER_ permission to do these things to her. You did not ask the permission of anyone else that you experimented on. You did not inform them of the risks, anticipated or otherwise. You simply did it because you could. You took away their choices and _that_ is what infuriates us all."

"And, since we are putting this on the record," Ratchet snapped. "Lydia can hear us and can interpret our language thanks to some of the parts I had to install within her. She shares my audio receptors for now until she and her spark can learn to work in unison."

A deafening quiet took the place of all the chatter. Even private and side conversations suddenly ceased. Lydia held her breath, feeling the fear welling up in her soul, trying to clench her heart in an icy grasp. Her heart wanted to race as adrenaline pumped into her system, yet it held its steady rhythm, coaxed to calmness by the mirroring pulse of Ratchet's spark. The combination left her feeling nauseous, her body primed for the flight or fight instinct born of all humans but without the ability to act on it.

Not to say that her sparkmate was a calm rock at the moment. If anything, she could feel his spark start to burn hot. At any moment he was going to let go of that notorious temper of his and the wrenches were going to start flying. Literally. Because the next set of questions were going to lead to the reason why Lydia was still furious with him.

He had used his own parts to save her life. He had given her Cybertronian technology, advanced Cybetronian technology, and even if it wasn't weapon technology, it could—and most likely would—be interpreted that way. Then her beloved would be guilty of breaking the Treaty. Then… she didn't want to think of the consequences of that.

The silence lingered until she thought she was going to scream, thought that she was drowning in the stillness of it. And yet, of all mechs and humans present, the one she thought would be the most quiet was the one to break that horrible silence first.

"How does she share your audio receptors?" Optimus Prime rumbled, his tone clearly showing how much he did not want an answer to that question. But, being their leader, he had no choice but to ask.

"I gave her my parts," Ratchet said simply.

"All of her parts came from you?" Glen gaped, staring at them both as if he couldn't quite understand.

"Yes."

She backed up until her body was pressed against the frame of her beloved, as if her fragile form could somehow protect him from what was about to happen. His finger touched her shoulder, her hand reaching up to close over that metal digit tightly. Green eyes met blue optics, thoughts and feelings beyond the base and vulgar scope of any language from any planet, danced between them in that few precious seconds of hush.

And then they looked back at their audience. And then the questions began to fly in earnest.

And then, only then, did Banachek smile.


	32. Chapter 32 Death

A/N: Apologies all around for taking so long to get this chapter out. I know I promised that I would post at least once a week. ::cries:: Sometimes life takes us in turns that we can't predict or change. Please don't be too angry with with me. Between my work and my family, and then some computer issues that my beta has, this chapter was horribly delayed. It was also very, very, very hard to write the first half of this chapter, too. :( It took some ugly turns where I had to force myself to keep the tone and not have Prime step in and automatically save the day. Trust me, he wanted to. He wanted to and told me so very clearly. Then almost refused to talk to me when it came to be his turn in the story. But I think we worked it out to our mutual satisfaction. We'll leave that decision up to you as the readers. ::hopes that you will be kind:: To make up for the lateness of this chapter, I will post chapter 33 in the next two days.

I want to thank you all again for the reviews and the suggestions! :D It's always refreshing to learn that people care about this story and what happens. I promise that things are not as dark as they appear. Story arcs come and go, but the core elements of the story always remain true. Have faith.

As promised, here are the next five chapter's worth of music. These songs inspired the chapters, even if they don't really fit as theme music. I can't explain how a song will touch me or touch off the spark of inspiration. However, they do. As such, here they are:

Chapter 6: Peace?  
Vindicated - Dashboard Confessional

Chapter 7: Conversation  
Things Can Only Get Better - Howard Jones

Chapter 8: Proposal  
Destination Unknown - Marietta  
Running Down a Dream - Tom Petty

Chapter 9: Departing  
Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone - Bill Withers

Chapter 10: Revelation  
Walk This Earth Alone - Lauren Christie  
Acrobat - U2  
How Strange - Emilie Autumn

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers or the songs listed above. Please don't sue. This is only for fun

* * *

She had thought staring down a committee filled with mid-aged humans pretending that they had something more than cold hard cash flowing through their veins had been scary. All the senate and budget meetings in the world, all the military debriefings before a panel of four star generals, had nothing—_nothing_—on the waves of intensity and the barrage of questions that flew at her from all directions. And while the bombardment of queries was expected, it was still frightening to behold. It was still twice as bad knowing that these inquires and harsh words came from her friends.

It was literally like a slap in the face, so much so that Lydia found herself backing up against her mate. There was anger in voices that she had once thought of as soothing, outrage in others that she had laughed with just days before. Even the show of support from her friends like Arcee and Wheeljack only added to the confusion instead of stunting some of it. And it wasn't just the verbal onslaught of words that had her head spinning, it was the mental ones.

More than a few of the Autobots in the room, namely the more newly arrived, sent their questions and comments both verbally and over the open comm. channel.

She was out of her element here, out of even a modicum of control and it showed. The cacophony of it all threatened to drown her, robbing her of what little strength she had found since her near-death at Ratbat's claws. More than once she felt the blackness of unconsciousness calling, and more than once Ratchet had reached across their spark bond, pulling her from the pit of oblivion and into the warmth of his love. It was almost enough to chase away the fear. Almost. Because he was beginning to feel that fear, too, and it trickled past his iron-clad control to taint the edges of their love. He wasn't afraid for himself. He was afraid of having to leave her to the not-so tender mercies of the assembled room. Lydia pushed back against that fear, hiding her own behind a wave of slowly building anger. And still she tried to field the questions as they came at her.

"You can hear us," A newly arrived mech she hadn't met yet called from her left. "Can you speak the language?"

"No."

"You share Ratchet's parts," This from her right, from Epps of all people. "Does that make you half-cybertronian?"

"No, I'm as human as you are, near as we can tell."

"But you have a spark," from SASF Sergeant Graham, a thoughtful expression on his face. "That means you aren't fully human anymore."

"The spark and I are almost independent of each other," she tried to explain, eyes glittering with the mixed fear and anger she was trying so hard not to show. "I gain life from it but it isn't under my command. I… I don't know—"

That did it. If she had thought the questions from before were harsh, the ones that were hurled at her after that little revelation were worse.

"Isn't under your command?"

"If it's not your spark, then whose spark it is?"

"Can a human be trusted with a strange spark in her chest?"

"Of all the slag-headed, thick-chipped things to say," Ratchet snarled, his worry dissipating into anger. One hand, the one that was not cupped protectively around her, opened and closed repeatedly at his side, as if searching on its own for the familiar weight of a specific wrench. "Of course she can be trusted. The spark is a shard spark from the All-Spark, not some Decepticon device, or did your processors miss the conversation about how a splinter of the All-Spark was slammed into her chest?"

More questions exploded from the occupants, filling the room with verbal shouts and mental static. Whimpers left her lips, her hands rising to her ears, trying to block out something that wasn't heard with her own senses, but felt somewhere within her mind. Not for the first time did she wish she could dig inside her own head and pull out the … the whatever it was that was allowing her to hear the comm. channel communications going on all around, but wouldn't let her switch it off.

Arcee stepped up beside Ratchet, her rifle subspacing into existence. "You all had better keep your fragging distance," she snarled, her voice barely heard over the continued call of questions. "Or I will show you just what a femme guardian can—"

"I have a question," Optimus asked finally, his smooth tone polite and unhurried, yet it seemed to cut through the noise and the banter as efficiently as a shout. The room quieted, the near-threat of violence abated in light of their leader's words. Eyes and optics alike turned towards the towering Prime. "Lydia, do you love Ratchet?"

The silence in the wake of that question was more deafening than the shouts of before. She took a deep breath, fighting against the nausea and the pain. Not to mention the feeling of all those eyes and optics focusing on her as if she were a science experiment. "Yes," Lydia gasped out, lifting her head to look at him directly. "I love him more than I love my own life."

Optimus nodded. "And Ratchet, do you love Lydia?"

"With all the light left to my old spark, I do." He replied, his optics growing tender as they stared down into her eyes. "I never planned on this, Optimus. _WE_ never planned on this. But it happened. It happened and I do not regret it. If given the chance to go through this again, the outcome would be the same. I love her enough to give up my spark. My only regret is that saving her life upset so many of you."

The quiet in the room grew heavy, pregnant with the possibility of what would happen next, of what their leader would choose to do with such a confession.

Again, Optimus simply nodded once, his expression unreadable. "You understand that your actions have placed your lives in peril, and possibly the lives of others depending on the outcome of this hearing."

It wasn't a question, and this time Lydia wasn't going to treat it like one. Her hands curled around Ratchet's fingers protectively, lovingly. "I love him, Optimus. We have literally gone through hell and back to find each other, and if I'm allowed to say anything in our defense, it's the fact that we both spent our entire lives balancing the risk with the reward. And we were serious when we said we would take whatever repercussions come our way together, but don't judge us on events that have yet to take place. That isn't fair to anyone."

The majestic Prime rose to his feet. "Enough questions have been answered this night. I would like time to consider the situati—"

"Time?" Banachek barked, causing those nearest him to jump in surprise, hands reaching for weapons that were not there. The man had been so silent, many had momentarily forgotten he was in the room. He jumped to his feet, staring at Optimus as if he could blast through him with just a glance. "What time do you need? The answer is simple. By the rules set forth in the Treaty between our governments, Lydia DeMarco is now guilty of a capital crime. She should be arrested immediately."

Ratchet's hand clenched around his mate, lifting her up and to his chest plates with one hand, the other filling with his personalized rifle. He turned his frame slightly, shielding Lydia as much as possible and managing to gain a better target lock on the annoying little human at the same time. Arcee pushed her way ahead of him to his left, positioning herself to further offer cover to Lydia and still allow Ratchet his clear aim. The tip of her rifle glowed faintly, ready to send out a low-grade pulse.

The battle lines had been drawn, the notion confirmed when Wheeljack took up position beside Ratchet, though without a weapon in hand. Clearly showing that he acknowledged his own perilous standing as a mech-in-punishment, but also standing in support of his friends. It was a mild surprise to watch Hound, Brawn, and Sideswipe—dragging a muttering Sunstreaker along—step up beside the assembled defensive team. Other mechs and femmes shifted in the crowd, the comm. channels alive with shouts of support for or against the mixed-species union. And not all of the words exchanged bore the civility of the Autobots. Some of them were quite clearly escalating into hostility.

"On what grounds?" Prowl boomed out, voice taking on the edge of his rarely shown temper and shattering the tense moments. He turned to address the entire room. "And if a mech—or a femme—so much as disengages one safety lock on _anything_, I will have all of you up on charges. We are a civil society. I would prefer if we acted like it. Now, human, present your charges."

Banachek had the gall to smile, and it was anything but pleasant. "My charge is that of thievery of top secret information. She is stealing Cybertronian technology," he rounded on Ratchet. "Or are you admitting to giving it to her? Are you admitting to sharing your sophisticated systems and technology—which is absolutely forbidden by the Treaty—with this human? Think carefully, Autobot. Think very carefully before you answer."

Arcee's optics blazed red, the nose of her rifle shaking ever so slightly as her safety programming locked into place, preventing even the slightest twitch. "What are you suggesting, human?" she snarled. "Because if it is what I think it is, you are not going to live long enough to regret your outburst."

"To borrow a human phrase, even I'm not ballsy enough to make that leap of logic," Sunstreaker added, sneering at Banachek. "Technology to save a life is one thing. Weapon technology is completely different."

"Watch me," Banachek threw back, turning a very triumphant smile towards Optimus. "Which is it, Prime? Did he share technology with a human—thus opening the way for further sharing of your technology—or is she a thief that should be dealt with immediately? Per the terms of our Treaty, she will be given over to us immediately for trial and incarceration. The treaty was very clear that each side would deal with its own--free of interference from the other."

"Trial?" Wheeljack blurted out, unable to restrain himself any longer. "No one in this room believes for a nano-klik that Lydia would make it to a trial, nevertheless a fair one. You would lock her back in some laboratory and dig out her parts like you did with Megatron."

"You have no right to interfere here, alien," Banachek tossed glibly over his shoulder at Wheeljack. "Again, the Treaty specifically states that you will not intrude on how we deal with our own. If we deem such action is necessary for the greater good, we will do exactly that."

Ironhide was a sudden blur of motion, like a dark shadow come to life on its own. In one moment he was standing next to his Prime. In the next he had one arm around Ratchet's shoulder, diagonally across his chest armor, his huge feet digging into the cement hard enough to leave grooves. And still Ratchet managed to drag the mech across the floor for about a foot. The anger in the medic's eyes would have normally sent most mechs running for cover. Quite a few in the room took an involuntary step backwards, just to be safe.

"You really are an idiot," Ironhide grumbled, trying once again to restrain his friend.

"Yes, he is," Banachek replied.

The look the weapon specialist gave the human could have stripped the flesh off his bones. "I was talking to you, human. Threatening a mech's femme… I should let him go and have at you."

"But you won't," Banachek retorted smugly. "Because of the Treaty."

"Oh!" Glen snapped his fingers suddenly, eyes wide behind his thick-framed glasses, his face alight with sudden understanding. "I see where this is going. And you know something, Banacheck, you're right."

"GLEN!" Maggie screeched, shocked. "Glen, this isn't the time for theories or—"

"Son, I hope you know what you are saying here," Keller interjected, a sharp warning flashing in his eyes. "You may do more damage that you realize."

"I know exactly what I am saying," Glen replied nonchalantly. He rose to his feet, gesturing for Maggie to do the same. And then he walked over to Prowl, putting his hands on his head and falling to his knees. "I'm ready to be arrested. Per the Treaty--the same one Banachek keeps tossing around, mind you--I'm just as guilty as Lydia. And if she has to pay, so do I."

Prowl's optics brightened, his head twitching slightly to the right as his logic processors struggled to come to grips with what was, at least to him, a very illogical turn of events. "What crime have you committed?"

"I use a computer every day of my life," Glen continued. "And every human on this planet benefits from what we call 'modern technology' in one way or the other. From actual computers to plastic cups to drinking water. We reverse engineered all of that from Megatron. So if we follow Banachek's logic, and apply the weight of the Treaty to that argument, then we're guilty of the crime with which he's charging Lydia."

The twitch stopped, and Prowl's lip plates turned up in a wide grin as he realized what Glen was driving at. "On behalf of the Treaty, I accept your surrender and charge you with the capital crime of theft."

Banachek's look of triumph faded into shock and then from shock to pure outrage. Maggie smiled ear to ear, falling to her knees with her hands on her head as well, ready to be handcuffed right beside Glen. Sam chuckled and did the same. Epps shrugged a shoulder and helped a grinning Lennox from his chair so that he could kneel in surrender as well. Then Epps joined him on the metal desk top.

"You can't be serious!" Banachek seethed between clenched teeth.

Keller lifted his eyebrows, turning to face the outraged man. "Oh yes I can," he replied, going down on one knee. "You have set the precedent. So unless you would like to either pay reparations to the Autobots for over one hundred years of stealing their technology, therefore negating our so-called thievery, or arrest eighty percent of the world's population, I suggest you withdraw your claim."

"They cannot be allowed to get away with this," Banachek bit out, eyes roving the room frantically, searching for some kind of assistance to his plea. "There must be punishment for what they have done. Sector Seven was disbanded. I lost everything. EVERYTHING! That was my punishment for doing what that medic and that bitch did. There must be payment!"

"And there will be," Optimus intoned, glaring down at the man. "That punishment will be met out with justice and tempered with compassion. Until then, Ratchet and Lydia will report to their quarters under limited movements."

"You're_ grounding _them? That is your wise and just punishment?" Banachek sputtered, hands balling into fists.

He turned his glare onto Lydia, the hate boiling in his eyes enough that Arcee nearly turned off her safety protocols. Still, the snap of her rifle against her palm rang out with her upset. "Try it, human," she dared softly. "She's bled for us, nearly died for us. She's one of us, and I don't care how many light-in-the-processors males like you I have to threaten in order to give her peace. Now back down."

"Actually," Keller called out, climbing back to his feet. "I think I see the solution here. Arcee, I want to thank you in advance for this bit of insight. Now Ratchet, did Lydia, at any part of your treatment of her, fall under the human perimeters of death?"

Ratchet eyed the human with wariness, his processors spinning out angles in hopes of figuring out what he was driving at. Ironhide's grip on him was firm, unyielding, and his battle programs warred with his spark's desire to protect his mate. Part of him wanted to fire on his old friend so that the rest of him could deal with the threat to his beloved. Ratchet fought against every subroutine in his programming, pushing through the rage to get to the logic. For, surely, there had to be logic to this human's question…

And then it clicked.

"Yes," he admitted, optics brightening to their normal sapphire hue, his frame relaxing again. A bit of a smile even tugged at his lip plates. "Yes, the human known as Lydia DeMarco died of her injuries. Medically speaking, her heart stopped for over ten minutes. Brain functions and respiration ceased. She was dead before I retrieved her completely from the plane crash. During surgery to try and revive her, her human systems failed one by one until she was offlined, her heart wound being the primary source of her death. As I explained before, it was impossible to repair."

"Then why are we standing here arguing over a dead woman?" Keller replied sternly, the amused glint in his eyes belying his tone. "I see no cause for theft. We certainly can't charge a dead woman, now can we?"

"No, we cannot," Optimus smiled a moment before his face took on the rigid lines of grief. "We will all mourn the loss of Lydia DeMarco. Her sacrifice shall be remembered with honor."

"But she's not DEAD!" Banachek screamed, waving his arms frantically. "She's right here in the room. YOU CAN'T DO THIS! THEY BROKE THE TREATY! EITHER GIVE US THE TECHNOLOGY OR ARREST HER FOR HER CRIME! IT'S THE LAW!"

"The only violation of the rules that can be claimed at this time is what Sector Seven did to those humans," Prowl replied offhandedly. "My Prime, Major Lennox, I would like to request psychiatric evaluation for the human designated Banachek. It is my belief that his obsession with the late Lydia DeMarco has unbalanced his logic processors."

Optimus nodded. Lennox nodded. And all the color drained from Banachek's face.

"I heard that," Epps smirked, flipping out a pair of handcuffs from his belt. "You coming quietly, or do I get to let Arcee have her fun?"

~*~*~*~*~*~

She was dead… again. Though, she had to admit with a wry smile, this time around being dead wasn't as confusing or surreal as the last. There was a small part of her that kept on the lookout for poker games, however. Or crumbling ruins covered with sand. Just the thought of it gave her the shivers. She doubted she would ever be able to think of Egypt and not quietly freak out for a very long time.

Still, it was an odd feeling, she reflected as she walked down the hallway, her Prada shoes clicking like claps of thunder down the huge Autobot hallway. Ratchet had left the meeting with a nearly smug and satisfied feeling, muttering about having a lot of work to do in a little time. Arcee had agreed with him, and instead of allowing him to return to his med bay and his work, she had steered both him and Prowl towards Prowl's office for "quarters relocation."

Arcee's reasoning was simple. Her charge was human, and as such, she would need human-sized accommodations. Considering that in a few hours Lydia wasn't going to be the liaison anymore, (a side effect of the whole 'legally dead' thing), she was going to have to give up the cute little apartment she had built for herself beneath her office.

That left her only two options: Move into the barracks, or move in with her mate. Being that the barracks did not have room for a bot of even Arcee's demure height and frame, and given the fact that Major Lennox and Optimus Prime would rather not have to brig Ratchet every day for throwing a wrench--or worse--at any human male that dared get close to his mate while she slept, that truly only left only one option.

She and Grumpy were going to co-habitate. Arcee and Prowl were, at this moment, redesigning the living space within Ratchet's private room and lab to accommodate a human. Given how well her best friend knew her personality, Lydia had little doubt that she would love it.

She would have loved it anyway, even if she were to live in a giant room of metal without any human-sized furnishings. She would still love it if it meant she was to be with her mate. That thought made her smile so brightly she thought her face was going to freeze that way, and even then she couldn't help herself. An amused chuckle drifted across their bond, sending a delicious shiver up her spine. No doubt she was beaming her happiness so much that it had escaped her meager mental shields and slipped through to her mate.

For once she didn't apologize for the slip. _I love you, mech of my spark, _she sent across their link, borrowing the phrase she had heard Chromia use with Ironhide.

_And I you, light of my spark._ _Now watch where you are going and don't trip._

_Trip? What do you—_

Lydia could barely contain the laughter that spilled past her lips as her foot touched the still-wet floor in a cross-corridor of the hallway, nearly sliding right out from under her. A sign displayed the words "CAUTION: WET FLOOR." A sign she would have missed in her happy oblivion. _How did you know?_

_Tracking you._

She lifted an eyebrow. _You're tracking me through the computer systems?_

_No, I'm tracking you through the tracking device within your mechanical heart. If you honestly believed I wouldn't add something like that to your implant after what lead to you needing one in the first place, you truly need your processors examined._

She tried to be upset about that fact. Any woman she had known in her entire life would have been offended to find out her husband had a tracking device on her. Hell, about two months ago she would have been so furious she wouldn't have been able to see straight. But after everything that had happened, and everything that was yet to happen, she could honestly state that she felt better for knowing that.

For knowing that no matter where she was on the planet, he would be able to find her. Never again would she be trapped in an airplane, alone and frightened and wondering if he would ever find her body nevertheless find her alive again. He would know. If not for the spark bond they now shared, for the implant that made her life flow as physically as he made her life flow emotionally.

_I should be pissed at you for that._

She felt him vent air in a snort. _I should be the one angered. I liked my quarters the way it was. Now it's a mess. We're going to have to recharge in med bay this cycle and the next until these renovations are completed._

Lydia suppressed a snicker at that. _Beloved, I've spent so many nights in your med bay that I think I'd be disappointed to be anywhere else. I think I've grown attached to the place._

A trickle of hot annoyance replaced the shiver of joy, pricking across her skin. And beneath that, buried somewhere in the mire of his upset, was a tiny thread of fear. _My medbay, femme. Mine! I refused to rearrange it to accommodate Prowl when he needed his wing doors repaired and I'm refusing to do _THIS_ to it just to accommodate my mate._

Her vision warbled, twisted in such a way that she had to throw herself against the wall to keep from falling over. The view of the hallway was replaced by the image of a rather unhappy Ratchet holding several pieces of her human-sized furniture in his hands. He held the solid oak sleigh bed as if it were delicate crystal, the matching dresser held in his other hand. And dangling from his outer armor, hanging from hangers in the creases, were all her clothes. Arcee stood next to him, holding her personal desk in both of her armored hands. Her tone was as authoritative as she had ever heard it, and Hot Rod, Skids, Mudflap, Brawn, and Jolt jumped to her commands in knocking down walls and preparing to weld in new piping for the plumbing.

The suppressed snicker became a full out burst of laughter as the vision faded. His fear, however much he tried to tell himself otherwise, was over the fact that she might want to do something like that to his med bay.

_Grumpy, I would never do that to you_, she sent soothingly. _Remember, you married an ex-military woman. I know better than to try and run over your personal domain. The med bay is and forevermore will be yours alone. That I can promise you._

His relief sang over the bond so strongly that she couldn't help laughing again. _And speaking of marriage,_ she continued, leaning her back against the wall more than clinging to it for dear life. She crossed her arms over her chest, looking at her shoes to keep any human passerby's from thinking she was crazy and staring off at nothing instead of contemplating something. _Are you sure there isn't anything we need to do to formalize our union in the eyes of your people?_

_In the eyes of OUR people,_ he corrected her. _I've a feeling that Optimus is going to do something to that affect soon. _

_Something to what affect?_

_You are going to need a clan to call your own, and a name of your own now,_ he said gently. _With your supposed death, you no longer exist in human society. Creating a new human identity for you would just put you back in the same situation we avoided with your death. Thus, it has been decided that, should you be willing, you will call yourself Cybertronian. We need a clan for you in order to make it official. My clan cannot be enough with our mating. Mating within one's own clan has been taboo for many generations. Mostly for the same reasons you humans refuse to intermarry within your families, just on a much grander and slower scale. Several offers have been made to Optimus Prime already to take you in. Adopt would be your human term for it. _

That was news to her. _Several offers? Already? It hasn't been more than three hours since the meeting! And after that whole debacle in the conference room, I was fairly certain no civilized mech would want anything to do with me._

She got the impression that he really wanted to throw something at her for being so dense. _They were shocked, nothing more. Even a race as old as ours has the ability to be surprised from time to time. All I ask is that you politely refuse Sunstreaker and Sideswipe and their offer. Please, by Primus, refuse that offer._

Her eyebrows almost merged with her hairline. _You're kidding, right? Why in the world would they want to adopt me?_

_Isn't it obvious? Purely to mess with me. I shudder to imagine the havoc they would cause in claiming that they and I are family. _

Her mind drifted before she could stop it, imagining Ratchet glaring at an innocent-looking Sides and Sunny across a massive table loaded with Thanksgiving Dinner. Sunny, of course, holding the bowl of mashed potatoes and waiting ever so patiently, with a look of pure innocence on his face plates, for Ratchet to ask him to politely pass it. It was enough to make her chuckle and enough to make him groan.

_Are you trying to give me a spark-attack? _He groused.

_No, just amusing myself._

_I'm so glad my pain can provide you with a suitably amusing distraction._

_Grumpy, everything about you is amusing to me, _she replied, pouring as much love through their bond as she could. _But that's because I love you. Now, who else made offers?_

It pacified him, that love. But barely. _Wheeljack, of course, but his offer is made more out of respect than out of any hope you would accept. His clan was not the most prominent on Cybertron, and became less so during the war._

Her amusement faded slightly. That didn't sound good. _Why? What happened in the war that lessened their standing._

He hesitated a moment, and she felt him blocking her from that portion of his thoughts. _It isn't my place to say. Regardless, his offer was made to show his respect and support. Ironhide has offered, as has Arcee, Kup, Grimlock, and… and Skids and Mudflap._

_Now there's a lovely thought_, she teased. _Always wanted gangster twin older brothers…_

_Femme of mine, _Ratchet vented air, seeming to deflate at the thought. _You delight too much in troubling me._

_It's what I do, _she smirked. _And you wouldn't love me if I didn't give back as good as I got._

That earned her a chuckle. _Indeed. Optimus sent his apologies, but as Prime in our… unique situation, he could not offer without compromising his neutrality as our leader._

_Optimus wanted to offer? _She couldn't keep the shock from her thoughts. _Given all the trouble I've caused, he's the last mech I expected to even entertain the idea._

_Sorry to break it to you, my sparkmake, but you are not the worst thing to face us to date._

It was her turn to want to playfully throw something at him, at the sharp teasing in his thoughts. _Now who's delighting in whose trouble?_

He laughed, truly laughed, the emotion washing through her like silvery water, cool and clean and wonderfully refreshing. She was smiling that large smile again before she knew it, walking out of the Autobot section and into the more human-sized corridors. _I love that I can make you laugh like that. _

_Only you can._

_I know, and that's why I love it all the more._

_Don't wander too far,_ he cautioned, a touch of seriousness filtering through the delight. _Optimus needs to speak to you alone, and you still have to choose a new name and a clan._

_Did Optimus say why he needed to speak with me alone?_

_No, thought I do not believe it has to do with our mating. It has to do with something Sam had told him. Something about dreams and the ancient Primes._

She almost missed a step. _Does Sam know about the Primes?_

_He knows a lot more than we let on._

She thought back to the dream-vision-death-like thing she had experienced before waking in the med-bay, a chill working its way down her spine. What was that femme, that Prima, had said to her? That Sam may be able to answer her questions, because she had far more than she realized? The chill ran through her heart as the meaning of that… that whatever it was in the desert… started to unravel.

_Ratchet?_

_Stand still. Arcee and I are on our way._

She could feel the fear bouncing around inside him, spurred on by the dread that stabbed deep in her soul. _I'm okay. I'm not hurt. I'm just… Ratchet, does the name Prima mean anything to you?_

He came up short in surprise, stopping in his race across the base to get to her location. She felt his processors still, felt the caution wrap around him like a thick fog. _Why?_

Before she could answer, another human started down the corridor in her direction. Their eyes met, the nearly white-gray of his filling with mixed anger and loss as they stared into her green gaze. She felt her tongue cleave to the roof of her mouth, her heart starting to beat rapidly.

"Hello, Josh," she managed out after a minute.


	33. Chapter 33 Shock

A/N: And I told you this would come out within days of the last chapter! ;) I want to apologize and yet thank everyone that has stayed with me throughout the past couple of chapters. I know they weren't the most exciting of chapters to read. But like I have said before, sometimes a bridge needs to occur between different parts of a story. I'm just glad that you have stayed with me through it! The next couple of chapters should flow much faster and be more like the ones that you have loved in the past. I read and love every single review. In fact, I go back and reread them all from time to time to make sure I am not missing anything, or have done something completely out of character. You all keep me straight, and for that I can't thank you enough! :D

On that note, I want to give a shoutout to Dragoon-Yue and Hummergrey for being patient throughout this story, waiting on the decision about Lydia's parts and being part-cybertronian. Also to MissMary and Cliffjumpersfangirl for sticking with me during the hard task of writing the Transformers reactions to their parts being put into the humans. That was a story arc that almost killed me to write. Much hugs to LadyJavert for the support and thoughts of Lydia understanding Cybertronian one day. And to Pyra Sanada--let's hope this chapter makes you happy in regards to aft-kicking and one particular human. ;)

I want to give speical thanks to Hummergrey for helping design the concept of **SparkBite**. I hope that this name isn't used already in another fic in reference to mated pairs. It is a concept that Hummergrey and I banged around forever until it came out perfectly (or so we hope that it came out perfectly). Feel free to use it in your fics if you would like, but I would ask that you credit the idea to Hummergrey and myself. :)

As a bit of a sidenote, I know that everyone has heard of the tragic events in Haiti. As such, I have offered myself up on a livejournal community called Help_Haiti that is raising money for the survivors of this tragic event. My story offer is one of many on the third post calling for donated stories. My LJ nick is ladyofdarkstar. Even if you don't bid on my story offer, please take a moment to check out this community. There are many amazing authors and graphic designers that have put their time and talent on the auction block for a good cause. :)

As promised, here are the next five chapters worth of music:

Chapter 11: Presentation  
It's my life (cover) - No Doubt  
Good Behavior - Plumb

Chapter 12: Debate  
Sad Exchange - Finger Eleven  
Scream - Michael and Janet Jackson

Chapter 13: Decisions  
Brace Yourself (acoustic version)- Howie Day  
Made of Glass - Trapt  
Weakness in Me (cover) - Melissa Etheridge

Chapter 14: Discussion  
Power of Goodbye - Madonna  
Cut - Plumb  
Right before Your Eyes - Hoobastank

Chapter 15: Ramifications  
In the Air Tonight (Remix) - Phil Collins

Disclaimer - I do not own Transformers or any of the above music. Please don't sue. This is not for profit and purely for fun.

* * *

"Hello Josh."

He stood at the end of the corridor, the shadows from that particular bend in the hallway obscuring most of his face from view. Only his eyes showed out in stark clarity, the grey-white of the irises nearly an unblemished silver beneath the halogen lights. There had been a time in her not too distant past that the sight of those slightly metallic-colored eyes would have sent her body into fits of lust. Now, now they seemed foreign to her, almost cold where once they had held nothing but the most intense of emotions.

"Lydia," he stated, her name coming out rough on his tongue.

She tried to make herself feel something, anything, in regards to him. She tried to feel an inkling of joy that he had survived and was there to greet her, or even happiness that he seemed to be completely healed of his injuries. Pride that someone from her old unit was still waking on this side of existence? Or maybe just the general camaraderie that always sprung up between soldiers on the same side?

She felt none of it. Not even the passing curiosity of one human to the other. He was blank to her, like a familiar stranger, a person that shared the same subway ride day in and day out but never engaged in conversation. Nothing more. And that should have bothered her. Hell, the fact that she could not work up the desire to feel resentment for his treatment of her during that horrible captivity in the fallen plane should have registered as a problem.

But the spark in her chest whispered that all systems were functioning within acceptable parameters. What her optics scanned and her processors relayed were also correct: she truly felt nothing for this human anymore. The part of her soul that was human glared across the bridge of her body at the Cybertronian spark, reminding it that only days ago she had almost consented to marrying this man. There should be some kind of recognition of that.

There. Should. Be. _Something!_

The spark waved away the worry, replacing images of that passionate night in Josh's bedroom with the feelings of love that came from her mate. Again it stated that it was logical and completely acceptable that, now that they were mated, that any other mech's attention would fall on deaf receptors. They had pledged themselves—spark _and_soul—to Ratchet. Why would they degrade the sacredness of that bond by paying any attention at all to another mech?

He seemed to notice that feeling of … nothingness… coming from her. Either that or the silence stretching between them had become uncomfortable for him. She was utterly indifferent to it. He took steps forward, his footfalls bouncing off the drywall in dull and lackluster thuds.

"Good to see you," She tried again, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Then why does it sound like you're lying?"

Lydia shrugged. "I'm not. I am truly glad to see you up and functioning."

"Functioning," he repeated, only the barest trace of scorn beneath the cool of his words. "I am not a machine, Lydia. I breathe. I speak. I think on my own. I do not function, I _live_. It's good to be _alive_. Or can you no longer understand that term, being dead and all?"

She wanted to flinch at his words. It would have been an appropriate social reaction after all, though not out of embarrassment. More out of sympathy for the suffering that he exhibited. The memo about her 'death' must have gone out the moment the meeting was completed. Though knowing Prowl, it went out the moment Prime had made his decision.

But it wasn't embarrassment or even sympathy she felt in that moment. The human part of her lifted an ethereal eyebrow at the spark, and at last found an emotion they had in common in this scenario: anger. An insult was an insult, after all. And a spark was alive, too, capable of feelings far deeper than a human mind could process.

Lydia stiffened, lips drawing down into a frown. "Real mature there, Captain. Any other adolescent pearls of wisdom you want to share with me, or can I get back to my day?"

Those silvery eyes hardened like steel. "Can't you see what they've done to you?" he tried again. "Listen to yourself. You sound like one of them. "

"I _am_ one of them."

He shook his head rapidly. "No, you are not. I don't care what memo was sent out or how top secret they've made this information. You are still human," His eyes grew tender a moment, gazing at her with earnest longing. "You are still the woman I love and want to spend the rest of my life with. Please, give up all this crap and come home with me. We can build a real life together."

The spark burned hotter beneath her breast, the anger in it warring with the memories of her human side. It wanted to lash out at Joshua, to tell him to back off and not to trespass where he was not wanted. The human part of her held it in check, locking down the commands to release adrenaline into her system and prepare to rush into the fight. He deserved a good, swift kick, of that both parts of her agreed.

But he didn't know that she was already mated to Ratchet. He'd probably only had a private briefing about how Lydia was now considered dead and he was ordered under penalty of Court Marshal and life in prison to never reveal the fact that she still lived. Fighting with him about that wasn't logical. He needed to be told first, and anything he did after that was on his own head.

That logic placated the spark, but only slightly. The damn thing burned hotly beneath her skin, so much so that she massaged the heel of her hand across the flesh above it. She knew she needed to get out of this situation and to do so quickly before—

_Light of my spark,_ Ratchet called, his worry transmitting across their bond like electric static. _I feel your spark racing. What is wrong? I can't get into the human areas. Come to me now or I'll send half this base in after you._

_Only half?_ She sent back absently, most of her attention on how to answer Josh.

_Yes, only half, _he snapped, irritation beginning to boil through the worry. _Because the other half will be needed to hold me down. Now are we going to test this theory or are you coming out of there now?_

She sighed aloud, her annoyance mingling with his worry until the air practically danced with the needle-sharp charge of their shared emotions. _No. I am not coming out right now. I'm dealing with Josh, so of course my emotions are going to run high. But this is my fight—_

_Femme of mine, nothing is just yours or mine alone,_ he fired back. But at least he sounded a bit pacified. If her temper was up and flaring, then she couldn't be all that much trouble… could she?

_Tell me that again when we discuss your med bay,_ she couldn't help but throw out at him. _Now give me some space. I need to deal with this thing head-on._

"Is that all you have to say to me? A sigh?" Josh whispered, a hurt and bewildered expression on his face. "And why does the pupil of your eye spin like that? Why is it green and not blue? What has that butcher they call a medic done to you?"

His tone jolted her back into reality and she slapped a hand over her optic without realizing it. The spark in her raged against such a denial of her nature, angered that she would treat that part of herself like it was a weakness, an embarrassment that should be hidden from the world. Even the human half had to get on the bandwagon on that one, she noted with a flush of shame. That had not been her intention with that action, but she could see how it could be interpreted that way.

"Back off," she snapped darkly, taking a step away herself. "And don't you dare speak about Ratchet like that again."

"What, about a machine?" he asked, frustration beginning to surface in his expression. "Lydia, he's not even human. You can't empathize with something without a heartbeat."

"_I_ don't have a heartbeat anymore," she countered, the spark inside her chest blazing to uncomfortable levels. She pressed that hand over it, trying to sooth the raging little ball of energy it had become. "Does that make me less than human, too?"

"Don't be absurd," Josh retorted. "You were born human like the rest of us. Lydia, please, let's get out of this place. We can find you a real doctor, one that can remove the alien intrusions from our bodies and we can be happy again."

"Did it ever occur to you that I might be happy here?" she took another step back, trying to put distance between herself and the object that made her spark seethe like a red hot coal beneath her breastbone. "That I had made a life here that I don't want to give up?"

"I know you aren't happy here," he said, advancing a step for each retreat she offered. "I know this because I know you. I know what your dreams are because you told them to me."

"That was almost seven years ago, Josh," she gritted out, sweat beginning to drip between her shoulder blades, beads of it shining on her forehead. "Things have changed."

_Frag it, get out here right now! I'm not ordering this as your mate, but as your superior officer. Your internal temperatures are rising to unacceptable limits. Your frame does not have cooling fans to counterbalance your angry spark. Get out of there or so help me I AM going to reach through that wall and pull you out myself! And don't think I won't brig my own mate for insubordination. I'll do it in less than a nano-klick to save your aft. OUT. HERE. NOW!_

That last sentence from her beloved reverberated so loudly that she visibly winced. "I have to go."

"Yes," Josh said soothingly, mistaking her actions, the giving of ground and the sweat rolling down her face as signs that she was trying to break whatever hold the Autobots had on her. "Yes, we have to go now. Fight them, Lydia. Fight their unholy influence and come home with me."

He crossed the rest of the distance between them in a rush. She could not turn away fast enough, could not form the words quick enough to warn him not to touch her. Her spark saw through her eyes, watched the threat approaching… and took immediate action.

It all happened too fast and yet to her it was as if years had passed. One moment he was reaching for her and she saw it. The next her vision snapped into crystal clear focus, glyphs and images she couldn't even begin to understand swimming across her eyesight as some form of targeting system overlaid what she saw. Her left arm blazed in agony, and she let out a cry. The skin of her arm felt like it wanted to split open at the seam. Like that scar that ran the underside of her skin was receiving commands not her own and yet were her own.

Like the flesh wanted to part and transform and allow a weapon to appear in answer to that targeting lock. Her head fell back and she screamed, holding her arm to her chest, falling to her knees. Josh wrapped an arm around her waist, trying to hold her up. Trying to be supportive… and in ignorance brought his chest—his heart—in line with her own.

The blast took him fully in the chest, blowing him back down the hallway a good ten feet. Blue-white energy surrounded him in a radius, his muscles jumping slightly from the electrical overload. Lydia slumped against the wall, cradling her throbbing limb and gasping for breath.

_Oh god, Ratchet. Please. Please hurry! Help me. I don't know what happened. I don't…_ She forced her eyes opened, blinking away the after images of that flash of light from her human eye and the last of the targeting system from her optic. _I think I hurt Josh. I, oh god, hurry!_

Hands locked onto her shoulders from behind—human hands. She almost screamed again, this time in warning that they shouldn't touch her. But her spark reassured her that these humans were not a threat. They were not attempting to break her bond with her mate. It felt as if some kind of safety lock went over her limbs, like an invisible hard plastic shell had fused itself over her flesh, forbidding her to do harm to those around her.

COMMAND OVERRIDE: RATCHET, CHIEF MEDICAL OFFICER. SAFETY PROTOCOLS ENGAGED. WEAPONS AND TRANSFORM SEQUENCE LOCKED UNTIL AUTHORIZED BY COMMAND STAFF.

Lydia shivered violently, trying to wrap her arms around herself as the humans pulled her out of the tiny hallway and into the bot-friendly corridors. She shook her head over and over, trying to deny what had just happened, and what had just flashed across her thoughts. She had seen the words. She had felt the… the stasis lock engage over her body as if someone had flipped a switch.

Part of her tried to remain calm, tried to tell herself that whatever Ratchet was doing, it was for her own good. She wasn't going to be hurt. She was going to be just fine. The human part of her soul wasn't convinced. It kept replaying over and over the pain when her body had tried to transform itself into a weapon. Her arm had literally wanted to shift bone and blood and vessels, to part flesh like it was armor plating and use circuits that weren't there to call weapons she did not possess out of subspace.

It was little wonder that the human half of her was freaking the frag out. The spark within simply gazed at its human host in a mixture of sympathy and curiosity. But not in apology. It would never apologize for protecting itself or its host frame. And it would never, not in a million vorns, apologize for defending its mate and the sparkbond between them.

She was hauled out into bright sunshine, into warm metal hands she knew so well. "Ratchet," She managed out between chattering teeth. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I didn't know what was happening. Is Josh … is he dead?"

Her body tingled as the scans ran across it, and she felt him sag a bit in relief. "You are fine for the moment, femme of mine. But we need to run some further tests. Captain Eddard will be fine. Your spark understood the limitations on his human frame. It was not a complete Sparkbite."

She clung to his chest plating as he held her close, trying to still the chills that swept through her. "Sparkbite?"

He nodded, letting his love and his pride in her abilities flow across their bond. "Yes, it's called a Sparkbite. We are mated, light of my spark. Our sparks are one and will defend each other to the offlining if needed. What you did was… warn… a mech not to attempt a bonding."

She glanced over her shoulder, peering through his fingers as Arcee lifted the unconscious Josh between her fingers, the look of utter contempt contorting her otherwise lovely features. "What is Arcee doing?"

"Taking the Captain to the brig," Ratchet replied, turning and heading in the direction of the med bay. "Attempting to steal another's sparkmate is a capital crime among our kind. He will be held over for trial."

"He didn't know we were mated," she sighed.

"Would that have stopped him?"

She thought about it, about what he had said before the pain and the other odd things happened. "No," she admitted honestly. "No, he thinks you are controlling me somehow, that I need to be reprogrammed."

Ratchet almost missed a step and the rage that ran through their bond had her grasping his chest plating like it was the only thing holding her to the earth. "NO!" she gasped. "No, not like that. I'm sorry. I didn't realize what reprogramming would mean. No, he isn't looking to enslave me. I swear. He's thinking that…"

"It doesn't matter what he's thinking," Ratchet growled. "And I know what human reprogramming means. It's still something detestable, no matter what race is doing it. Now calm your systems. We need to figure out what happened to cause your programming to come online."

"I didn't even realize I had programming," she whispered, balling herself up in his cupped hands as much as she could. Despite the oppressive island heat, she felt hollow and cold, like half of her had fallen into a numb state.

"You have some," he admitted. "I was afraid of something like this when your spark bonded to your human life force. We are all born with base programming, even as a sparkling. There is code within our sparks, otherwise we would be as your Captain Eddard likes to think of us: machines without life and emotion. What we call base code, humans call instinct."

"My spark bit him on instinct," she echoed. "My spark considered him a threat. Is that reaction why I feel like half of me is dead to the world now?"

Some of his anger faded at that. "No, you feel that way because I locked down your programming. All of it that I could, save for what was necessary to keep you online. Welcome to what it feels like to have half your systems on lockdown."

She shivered again. "I don't like it," she murmured sullenly. "Feels like I'm walking around only partially awake."

"You'll get used to it. We all did."

She mulled that over as he walked, thought about the useless feeling in her limbs. And then she felt utter sympathy for all the Autobots present, knowing that they had to live in this state when around humans. Engaging locks and security overrides, living in a state of partial activation in order to ensure that their actions would not cause harm to any human near them. It was a testament to their dedication to their promise to protect.

She thought back to Josh, about how he had wanted to remove her from this place, thinking only of what he wanted, what he thought that she needed. It would have been so easy for the Autobots to have done the same, to make the decisions for the humans, to cordon them off in small sections of the base so that they could live without this numbness inside.

But they chose to give up parts of themselves in order to mingle freely, to give the humans the freedom they, themselves, cherished so much. Josh would have never done that, she realized. No matter what it meant to the other person, Josh would have never given up so much of himself. She had to wonder who was the true alien in that equation, who was the real monster.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Is it true?"

Arcee looked up from her post outside the med bay doors, pulling herself out of her slump and out of her personal thoughts. Fear had gripped her spark since the incident not an hour ago in the space between the human and Autobot quarters. She had felt the energy coming from Lydia, herself. And the fear that had gripped her had nearly torn her in two. Humans were not meant for transformation sequences. The fact that Lydia had tried—or that her spark had tried, for that matter—was more than enough reason to be worried.

Hot Rod moved into her field of vision, and a tiny jolt of attraction rushed trhough her systems, chasing away a portion of the worry. Her spark wanted to meld with his, to share pleasures beyond imagining. That was a feeling she had become accustomed to since serving with him here on Earth, something she had learned to accept with Lydia's help. She wanted him, wanted something more for herself than war and destruction.

She had never mated before, hadn't had the time before the war broke out. And while some mechs and femmes adopted the 'hump and dump' attitude as Lydia called it, Arcee couldn't bring herself to do that. She had an old-fashioned spark deep inside her chamber, and it wanted more than a night's pleasure from this mech. It was truly a shame that he didn't want the same, or at least wasn't ready for it. And so she pushed aside the feelings, forced herself into the role she had chosen: that of guardian.

"Is what true?"

"That Lydia tried to transform," he replied, an eager light in his eyes. "It must be true if you are hanging out here and Wheeljack and Kup are inside med bay with Ratchet."

"Lydia's dead," Arcee stated flatly, the look in her optics daring him to say otherwise. "And humans can't transform."

Hot Rod compressed his lip plates, staring past the pink femme as if he could somehow see through the med bay and confirm or deny the rumor for himself. "She needs to pick a clan and a name," he muttered. "It's difficult to refer to her as just a femme, or Ratchet's spark mate."

"You offering?" Arcee smirked, leaning against the wall and folding her arms across her chest plating.

Hot Rod shrugged. "I suppose I could. Why not?" Arcee's glare stole some of the mirth from his expression. "What?"

"I can't believe you would be so glib about something like this," She replied, shaking her head. "This is serious. This is the rest of her life, not to mention the rest of Ratchet's. It's not something to take lightly."

"Who says I am?"

The way he stared into her optics then, the seriousness in his expression, almost stopped her spark for a moment. It was so unlike him, so unlike the mech she knew that lived for fighting and for driving Epps around the base at breakneck speeds. A pleasantly warm and slightly lightheaded feeling swept through her, so much so that she immediately engaged her anti-virus programs, scanning frantically for whatever would cause such a feeling in her.

Her programs reported what she had feared the most: that nothing was wrong. She felt that way because of his presence and the way he gazed at her in that moment.

Arcee had to look away, staring down at the rifle attached to her arm, fingers randomly adjusting the scope this way and that. "You don't understand what you are asking."

"What's to understand? She's a valiant human, one who proves herself a friend with each action she takes. Who wouldn't want someone like that in their clan?"

Again she looked up at him sharply, so many thoughts and emotions swirling in her optics that she didn't know what to do with herself. "Yes, but are you ready to shelter her when needed?" she whispered, knowing that she was referring to more than just Lydia and hating herself for it. "Are you ready to offer comfort and speak up when matters affect her? Even at the cost of your free time? Do you feel you are ready for your actions to reflect on more than just yourself?"

The way he gazed back at her, the stillness in his frame, let her know that she had probably spoken too much, revealed too much. That hating of herself turned into loathing, churning in her tanks like rancid energon. Blast, she knew better than to say so much out loud!

"I'm only asking because Prime will ask those questions of you if you apply," she muttered, slumping a little against the wall.

"Yes," he answered simply, voice filled with sincerity. "I'm ready for that. If only because you are."

Her head snapped up, optics widening and then narrowing. "What do you mean?"

He started to shrug a shoulder, then thought better of it. "You're a femme. No offense, as I've seen you take down Decepticons harder than most mechs out there. But you are a femme, and traditionally the role of guardian falls to a mech. You were willing to step outside of that tradition, to forge ahead almost blindly into something new regardless of the risk or the outcome. That's something worth admiring, Arcee. And that has earned you my respect triple-fold. If, for no other reason that you have found L—Ratchet's mate—worthy of that risk, I'd offer her my clan."

She didn't know what to say to that, couldn't process what to do with his words. There was more than just the rambunctious Autobot in his gaze, in his words. It was like she was catching a glimpse of the mech he could be if only he applied himself. And more than that, it was like suddenly talking to a younger version of Optimus Prime. Just something about Hot Rod in that moment that made her think of command and strength, that drew her to him like a comet caught in a gravity well.

"Besides," he continued with a wide grin, startling her out of her staring fit. "She loves fast cars. I love being a fast car. No telling what kind of trouble we could get into together."

He turned and walked back the way he had come, leaving Arcee staring after his retreating form, wondering if the entire incident had been the projections of an overly exhausted processor or if he had just proven to her that maybe, possibly, there could be a future for them.


	34. Chapter 34 Anger

A/N: I know I say this every time, but I can't thank you enough for the reviews and messages and for those that have made this story a favorite. I bounce up and down excitedly each and every time I get one and I promise I read them all. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Some people have even asked questions about this or that. I promise that those questions will be answered (as I haven't forgotten about the flowers, honest!) in this fic in time. :D

This chapter is a little short this time around and for that I apologize. Time for writing has been something I have lacked lately due to work and other various projects. So thank you again for taking the time to read this massive fic that grows more and more. :)

I would like to take the time to give a shoutout to **Razorgaze** as my wonderful beta. She is also a fabulous author. Please read her story "Our Debt." It's worth it. :D On that note, I would also say that this chapter has not been beta'ed due to computer issues. Any mistakes are mine and mine alone and should not reflect on Razorgaze or her amazing skills. I am beyond thankful for all the help and work.

As I have promised, here are the next five chapter's worth of music:

Chapter 16: Fear  
Violence Fetish - Disturbed

Chapter 17: Crashing  
Adrenaline - Gavin Rossdale  
Fuel - Metallica  
Burn - Alkaline Trio

Chapter 18: Racing  
Running up that Hill (cover) - Placebo  
Hero - Chad Kroeger  
Red Rain - Peter Gabriel

Chapter 19: Battle  
Castledown - Emilie Autumn  
Fighter - Christina Augilera  
Away - Breaking Benjamin

Chapter 20: Capture  
All Along the Watchtower (cover) - Bear McCreary  
Kryptonite - 3 Doors Down

Disclaimer: As always, I do not own Transformers, nor am I making any money from this. The story is purely for fun. Please do not sue.

* * *

It started as a stray thought, a lingering bit of memory that skated across the edge of her bored thoughts. For some reason, her mind had chosen to latch onto that little piece of random memory, flipping the images and names over and over, and spinning out arbitrary possibilities for the future. Then her spark got in on the idea, extrapolating on the data collected by her daydreaming and coming to some very disturbing conclusions.

And so the stray thought became a faint concern, which in turn warped into a thread of worry. The only problem with that, though, was she had no idea what the worry meant. Only that her mind kept replaying the conversation with Joshua in the hallway, then adding in snatches of that horrible meeting with Banachek.

It made no sense. And yet it wouldn't leave her be.

Lydia shook her head for what felt like the millionth time, trying to chase away the worry only to be distracted by the blurriness around the edges of her left optic. Like all other prior attempts to clear both mind and vision, the action did little to improve her situation. Two hours had passed since the incident in the hallway, and still her vision was not completely back to normal.

"Ratchet, when are you going to unlock the, um, whatever it is in my optic that's making it all fuzzy?" The tale-tell tingling of yet another scan was her only response. Lydia jumped at the feeling, trying hard not to glare in the direction of her mate. "Will you stop scanning me already? I told you I'm fine.

"Sorry, that was me," Wheeljack interjected, the fingers of one hand tapping at controls on the opposite wrist. "I needed a precise scan of your current neural mapping, specifically the sections controlling your motor functions."

She fought not to sigh. Worse, she fought not to verbally slap him with a sarcastic rebuke. Truly she adored Wheeljack. The mech was almost like a brother to her, if truth be told, but the continuous scanning from one mech or the other was getting to be a bit much. Not to mention the fact that she was cranky, that half of her body moved just a second too slow thanks to the medical overrides her beloved had instituted on her, and that she was just plain _sick _of being in the med bay.

"Can't I go wait in our quarters?"

"No."

This time she did glare at her mate. It was a rather nasty one, that glare, and one she would have been particularly proud of had it been put to good use. However, that horrendous facial expression found itself wasted as her beloved was otherwise engaged. A holographic rendering of some kind took up the entire length of Ratchet's desk, and he, Jolt, and Red Alert huddled around it like it was some kind of prize.

Only Wheeljack, standing off to her left at a bank of medical panels, was there to witness the Glare of Doom. The inventor shivered accordingly and appreciatively at the disturbing piece of emotional art she was displaying. "Did you learn that look from Ironhide?" he stage whispered, "Or was that something of your own invention?"

"My own," She whispered back, still glaring her mate. "And why can't I go to our quarters?" She asked loudly.

"Because they aren't completed yet," Ratchet answered offhandedly, optics dimming slightly, indicating that he and the rest of his medical buddies had their primary processors deep into the medical mystery that was her life.

"Aren't completed," she challenged, crossing her arms over her chest and tapping her Prada shoe against the metal of the Autobot sized berth. "Or aren't completed to your specifications?"

He looked up that time, fixing her with a glower that could have matched the one she tried to send him before. "Is there a difference? Now, please, be silent and let us complete our analysis."

Lydia threw herself backwards against the pillows, trying to get comfortable on the hospital bed. Failing, she crossed her arms over her chest once more and stared at her mate. "You can at least tell me if Josh is alright," she sulked. "Or allow me a visitor or two. And if I develop claustrophobia, I'm blaming you."

"Says the femme that had once claimed that being anywhere but this med bay would be a disappointment," Ratchet murmured, keying in a series of commands into the hologram emitter. The image changed, and he froze in mid motion, optics spinning and flashing.

She knew what that meant, and the sigh that left her lips was more frustration than anything else. He was deep in conversation with the others now, sharing ideas and theories at speeds that would boggle the human mind. Even Wheeljack had frozen, his optics matching Ratchet's with that whole dim-and-swirl thing. Lydia sighed again. At this stage, gleaning any information from those four was going to be like wringing blood from a stone. Which was to say, not very likely.

They would tell her when they were ready. Until then, she had to wait.

And it wasn't that she hated being in the med bay at all. There was just… something… that wouldn't let her sit still. And the more she thought about it, the more that 'call to action' swept through her body so badly it felt like a thousand ants crawling across her skin. Something was off, not quite right. She could feel it, and it wasn't a pleasant feeling, either. Trepidation continued to tap-dance along her spine until she was up and pacing again.

"What if I stay with Arcee?" She tried again.

Ratchet's head twitched slightly to the right. _Have I suddenly slipped into an extinct alien language that you cannot understand?_ He snapped through their bond, his words coming out slightly muted, diluted by the way his attention was split. _I thought I clearly stated in human English that you may not leave this medical facility until I have cleared it._

_But something is __**WRONG**__._

_Something is __**always**__ wrong, femme of my spark. _

She shook her head. _No, this is more than that. I … I can't describe it. Everything just feels wrong. Like the world is holding it's breath in expectation of something bad. _

_It is probably the systems lockdown that you are feeling,_ he sent dismissively. _Give me details on this feeling or, as you have bluntly put it before, give me my space to continue to fix this current situation. I cannot aid what I do not know._

Frustration filled her, weaving its way around that wrong feeling and settling down inside her heart. The spark in her chest was silent for once, content to sit and wait. It acknowledged only that her human side was tying itself in knots, and so it stared in wonder. Almost as if trying to puzzle out the reasons why her soul was so agitated.

She felt her chest begin to heat slightly, and then a cool sensation spreading throughout her body. The vision in her optic dimmed, and again those strange symbols flashed for the briefest of moments. Then the sensation was gone and her spark reported that everything was functioning within tolerable parameters. There was no need to excite her systems.

Nothing was wrong… aside from the fact that she still wasn't used to the occasional messages or scans from her own spark. That was more than unnerving now that she thought about it. But something other than that was wrong. Something her brain recognized that her spark was missing. Something that overrode any other sensation or concern.

_That's just it. I don't know what's wrong. I just know that something _IS_ wrong. I want to go with Arcee and check it out. I'll be safe with her._

He spared the bit of processing power it took to turn his head and pin her with the patented Grumpy stare. It was normally enough to make even a Prime give way. Normally. _The two of you are about as much trouble together as either set of twins. _

_Optimus trusts her enough to allow her to be my guardian. That should be good enough for you, too._

_He is our Prime and I honor his judgments in all things dealing with war and law. However, this is not about either. This is about your life. And while I trust Arcee at my back in combat, I do not trust her to protect you from yourself. At least, not at this juncture._

_Is that why you threw her out of your med bay? _

_No, I threw her out for the same reasons I wish I could toss you out as well—for distracting me with inane questions. But that isn't an option for you. So I will reiterate, be silent and give me my space. Your cooperation will rapidly bring this issue to a close. Or you can continue to delay me with pointless arguments and we can drag this out another cycle or two._

_I hate it when you're right,_ she growled. _But just because you are right doesn't mean that I'm wrong. _

_Then prove yourself right! _He snapped, exasperated. _For the last time, give me details on what you feel is wrong and I will gladly listen. Until then—_

_Yeah, I get it. Give you your space. Got it._

And she slammed the mental door between them hard enough that he jerked physically. The others around them were either too engrossed in their work to notice, or were polite enough to ignore an obvious spat between sparkmates.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was true, it seemed. Fortune favored the patient.

It was the sight of the two humans that finally pulled him from his stupor. Ratbat's only functioning optic spun in and out of focus, watching intently as Prowl scanned the trays of organic nutrient items provided by the human security officers. The Autobot Second-in-Command nodded once, appearing satisfied, and keyed for the two human-sized doors in the cells across from him to open. He spared not a glance for his Decepticon prisoner.

Which was fine with Ratbat. He had learned quickly that the less time he spent around his jailor, the happier they both became. It had taken only two conversations for the predicon to realize that Prowl had no emotions or ambitions that would lead him astray. Not like that hothead Ironhide nor the impetuous Jolt. Oh, he had those two pegged as potential tools to help in his plans for freedom, whether they wanted to or not.

He preferred not. It was always much more satisfying to glimpse the look of utter anger or despair when a bot realized he had been used. It added a nice slice of glee to the joy of escape.

And while he had not, as of yet, found a use for the stolid and logic-glitched Prowl, Ratbat was certain not to forget him. If he could not find a way to use the mech in the present, he would record as much as he could and figure out how to use him in the future. Knowledge, after all, was the greatest power and most precious resource. A soft snicker, twisted and nearly unrecognizable coming from his devastated vocal processor, escaped him. Humans said that elephants never forgot. But that was before they had ever met a predicon.

Prowl did not miss the sound, waiting until the human security officers had delivered the meals and exited the cells, before locking them down and approaching the Decepticon. "You have a statement to make."

Like always, it wasn't a question. Prowl never asked questions of prisoners, Ratbat knew, now from firsthand experience. No, Prowl never asked. He demanded. "Why would I have anything to stay to you?" He asked instead, starting his usual pacing from one end of his cell to the next.

"Your tone indicated a need for expression. If you have a statement to make, I will hear and record it on your behalf."

"How noble of you, Prowl," Ratbat sneered, making sure the full brunt of his broken face was turned towards the Autobot. "Record this, then. I require medical treatment."

"This is your forty-fifth request," Prowl replied, unphased by the horror the little Decepticon presented him. "As with the previous requests, I will note it in your record and see that Ratchet is alerted. However, like before, I feel that he will respond with the same words. You are functioning. No further aid will be offered until something of equal worth is offered in return."

"Ah, so you can bargain, my stoic bot," Ratbat smiled, only half his face components complying with the command. "And what would you consider a fair trade for medical treatment?"

"Tell me the location of your current base."

The half-smile wilted, somehow becoming all the more gruesome. "It's on Earth."

The Autobot continued to stare at him, blue optics glittering here and there with flecks of temper. Ratbat nearly fell over with shock. So it appeared that the mighty Prowl _had_ emotions after all. He simply buried them beneath the thick armor of logic with which he cloaked his processors. Suddenly the Autobot Chief of Security had become interesting again. Ratbat filed that bit of information away. It would be of use later, of that he had no doubt.

The silence continued to stretch until Prowl nodded once. "The answer is unacceptable. No deal."

Ratbat vented air as best as he could, the damaged intake fans rattling and clanking painfully. "The answer was correct, Autobot. It was your question that was poorly executed."

Prowl stiffened, and Ratbat's silent delight elevated as the flecks of temper turned into swirls of burgeoning anger. The reaction only confirmed his suspicions from before. Something was going on in the Autobot command structures. Something wasn't as it appeared, and he bet heavily on the fact that it had something to do with Optimus Prime. Or Lydia. Or both. The fact that Prowl was showing his emotions was almost all the proof he needed.

Almost.

"You knew what I was asking," Prowl replied, taking a step closer to the tiny cell.

"I knew only what you asked, not what you implied or intended. I am talented in many things, but reading a guarded processor is not one of them."

"The exact location of the current Decepticon base and/or bases on earth," Prowl reiterated, wing doors held flat and motionless as a sign of his impatience. "I want that information."

Ratbat's smile was a thing of nightmares, complete with a thin stream of energon leaking from the left corner of his decimated and immobile mouth plates. "I have forgotten. It must be all the unrepaired damage I am suffering."

It seemed impossible for Prowl's wing doors stiffen any further with his annoyance. Somehow he managed it. "Then you will remain as you are. I will forward your request for repair. Though I am not overly optimistic that the reply will be any different."

"One never knows what the future will hold," Ratbat mused, emitting that coughing, twisted sound that passed for his laughter. "A sentiment I am certain your Prime shares in these troubling times."

Prowl shook his head once, lip plates compressing. The 'Con was baiting him, that much was painfully obvious. What wasn't nearly that telling, though, was how his systems wanted to rise to that bait. More than anything, he wanted to reach through those glowing bars and rip the little creature into pieces, and then spend hours pulling the information he wanted from what was left of its memory cores.

Because contained in that twisted broken face was the key to why Barricade had kidnapped that human woman, that Detective Elayna Feugo, and what plans Megatron had for her.

It was all he could process of late, all he saw when he slipped into his recharge cycles. Elayna Fuego's face, her body riddled with implants that did not fit with her core programming. The rage, the maddening feeling of commands not her own echoing through her mutilated body. Being forced to become something so against the core of his spark that no word ever spoken in any language could begin to describe the anguish.

He remembered it, in every excruciating detail. Just as he remembered the spark-searing agony as he had ripped those implanted parts from his frame one by one, regardless of the damage to himself or the lack of logic in the action. He would not be made into a weapon of war and destruction. He would not be forced to betray himself and the law and all he held dear. Not so long as one drop of energon flowed through his systems.

And if the cost of that denial was his emotions, if the pain he felt in that moment turned into a logical glitch that would haunt him for the rest of his existence, so be it.

Did Elayna Feugo think that same thought? Was she even now held against her will, her human brain undergoing reprogramming at the hands of the Decepticons? Or had she found the courage to offline herself instead of becoming their tool, as he had once tried to do?

His cooling fans kicked in, reminding him that he was standing as a representative of the Autobot faction at the moment. He could not afford to allow his personal feelings overwrite the mandates of that faction. He could not allow himself to express the hatred echoing in every system he possessed. He was not a murderer, a butcher. He was a servant of the law.

"What our Prime thinks and feels is of no concern to you. Unless you are offering to switch factions."

Ratbat noisily vented air, hissing in Cybertronian just what he thought about that offer. "I would rather die here than live as a slave on my knees," he said aloud.

Enough was enough, and Prowl had had his fill of the creature. "As you so choose," was all he said, exiting the room before his desires overwhelmed his programming and he acted on them.

Which suited Ratbat perfectly. He coughed/chortled again, taking a small bit of satisfaction at all the reactions he had provoked in Prowl. Indeed, the Second-in-Command was going to make a fine pawn in the game to come. Now it was time he turned his attention to the other pieces on the game board.

"And so we are alone," Ratbat snickered once more, watching Prowl leave the room. "How does it feel, my cell mates, to have what you once thought of as your protectors turn you into prisoners?"

The two humans, one called Tom Banachek and the other called Joshua Eddard, stared back at the shattered Decepticon. One with utter loathing in his eyes, and the other with… something else. Oh yes, these humans were just what he wanted. Fortune did, indeed, favor the patient. And Ratbat was not about to waist the golden opportunity that had been delivered into his cold, clawed hands.


	35. Chapter 35 Impressions

A/N: Every time I post a chapter, I am truly touched and honestly floored by all the reviews that come in. :D I know I said before that I read every one of them, but I also go through and reread them again and again. Scouring them, you might say, to make sure that I give credit where credit is due and to make sure I don't leave out any of the good ideas that come in. This story started out with a much different idea for several of the chapters in it. Great ideas helped to shape those chapters into great works of art. I really and truly cannot tell you **_THANK YOU_** enough for reading and sticking with me on this. If this site would allow me to post a page that just said "thank you" in big sparkly letters that flashed, I would do it. You all rock. My imagination loves you to pieces and this story would not be what it was today without you.

For this chapter, I need to give a wonderful shoutout and hug to Hummergrey. When I was beating my head against the horror that is writer's block, she helped me find my inspiration again. So thank you from the bottom of my heart! You are an amazing friend as well as a fantastic author. Thank you for being there and putting up with my silliness. :D

I would also like to thank my beta, Razorgaze, for all her hard work on my many and lengthy fics. While Hummergrey beta'd this chapter by virtue of keeping me from going insane, please look forward to Razorgaze keeping me on course for the next one. Please go and read her fic "Our Debt" if you haven't already. It's awesome!

As promised, the next five chapters worth of inspiration music:

Chapter 21: Spark  
Leave out all the Rest - Linkin Park  
Now We are Free - Enya

Chapter 22: Fallout  
Possibility - Lykke Li  
Roads - Portishead  
Broken - Seether  
All Love Can Be - Charlotte Church  
Breathe - Superchick

Chapter 23: Awareness  
Right Here Waiting - Staind  
Vermillion Part 2 - Slipknot  
Better than Me - Hinder  
Tell Me - Boston

Chapter 24: Outrage  
Long, Long Way to Go - Phil Collins  
Stripped - Depeche Mode  
Deify - Disturbed

Chapter 25: Joy  
Endless Dream - Conjure One  
Elsewhere - Sarah McLachlin  
Hold My Heart - Tenth Avenue North

Disclaimer: As always, I do not own Transformers nor any of the songs listed above. Those are owned by people that make my dreams of fortune and fame look shortsighted at best. Please don't sue. This is purely for fun.

* * *

Arcee couldn't shake the image of him from her processors, feeling as if that conversation in the hallway had somehow stabbed down into the center of her mainframe, spreading itself in electric pulses across her circuits like some kind of blinding sensory overload. Every pulse of her spark brought Hot Rod's face plates before her optics, the way he stood when speaking to her teasing her every conscious thought. No matter how many times she tossed those unwanted images beneath program after program, they always found a way to drift to the forefront of her processor.

Like a virus, it evaded her stringent efforts to focus on her duties. Instead, she found her attention narrowed on how he had shifted from cocky, reckless, aways-in-trouble youngling in one nano-klik to a serious mech worthy of her spark in the next, standing straight instead of slouching.

Not that he had a bad slouch, she found herself processing. On the contrary, there was a certain appeal in the way he held himself like that, displaying his armor and colorings in a dazzling and yet easy-going manner. Had they been home on Cybetron, and had their world not destroyed itself in this pit-spawned war, she would have sworn he had taken that pose on purpose to lure her to him. He certainly displayed all the qualities of a mech looking for a match.

Looking for her, particularly.

His colors were sharp, the patterns clear and detailed as if freshly applied. His optics had stayed in full contact with hers, and he had continued verbal communications when it would have been easier to shift to private comm.. No, he had stayed verbal because she had stayed verbal. He hadn't tried to assert dominance over her, tried to strut about and prove he was a good candidate as a provider and future mech creator.

Hot Rod had engaged her in conversation, had given her one of the greatest compliments she had ever received. Had he closed the distance between them, had he placed his hand upon her armor plates just above the spark that burned so hotly in her chasis and whispered the words in the old tradition that he was presenting himself for consideration, she would have nearly blown a processor.

She could almost hear it now, could almost feel his hand above her burning spark. _I am presenting myself for your consideration, femme, without demand or reservation. I ask that you challenge or deny my spark, as equal to your own, forever apart yet one half of a whole for as long as our sparks blaze and beyond to the Matrix. _

Here cooling fans kicked in, startling herself from her slumped position. Somehow during that fantasy, her head had bowed, her parts filling with an aching fire and emptiness all at once. To be loved like that, to hear the words that would be the start of a sparkbond. It was her greatest wish.

And being without it was her greatest horror.

She would have blown a processor, indeed, and then—like she had seen her human femme allies do—would have literally jumped into his arms. Just to be close to the spark in him, to have a thrill in knowing that in a cycle or two, she would know the exact rhythm of its pulse. The thoughts left her dizzy, left parts of her inner workings raw with unquenched need.

But then he had left, she processed darkly. Simply and completely… left. Had it been any other mech, she would have accused him of teasing her. One didn't go through such protocols only to walk away like that. Unless he hadn't intended to engage her in pre-mating customs at all, and she had let her own desires read too much into his actions.

Arcee gave herself a mental shake, snapping to attention. _Stupid, stupid femme. Pay attention to the now and not your idiotic dreams! _Had Ironhide or Ultra Magnus or even Prowl happened by in that moment, they would have given her a lecture concerning what was expected of a Guardian harsh enough to burn her circuits good. And she would not have denied them that privilege, either. _I am a guardian now. My life is to protect and guide another. I cannot allow myself the diversion of thinking of any other desires save for those of my charge..._

Arcee resumed her rigid defensive stance, and tried very hard not to remember that wonderful gleam in Hot Rod's optics as he complemented her for doing this very thing…

~*~*~*~*~*~

He was weary down to his base components.

Orion Pax had learned a long time ago that being Optimus Prime meant existing on that fine line between fatigue and red-lining into forced stasis. It seemed that no matter what planet they found themselves on, what bit of space that they happened to occupy among the oblivion of the stars, there was always some issue, some pressing bit of business that needed his immediate and full attention. Delegating most of those demanding tasks to Prowl had not lessened the load as he had hoped. If anything, the reliving of such items only left room on his daily agenda for more and deprived him of his best resource for assistance.

Responsibility was never-ending for a Prime. It was ironic that the only time he was left to his own processors was in the midst of battle. No one wanted so much as a fraction of his attention then, not when his battle programs were fully engaged and Decpticon pieces made a gruesome carpet as his feet. Not unless it was to give updates or revise the attack strategy. Maybe Ultra Magnus had the right idea leading a simple soldier's life…

He vented air the moment he had processed that thought. _That so-called 'simple soldier' as he refers to himself, is a commander and has filled in more than once for me—on the battlefield and off. Perhaps it's time that I make him Prime for a vorn…_

Optimus delegated that processing into the mental stack of ignorable subroutines. He could no more hand off the Matrix of Leadership and reduce his rank to front-line solider than humans could fly on their own. True, the lack of pressure to lead would be a relief for a short period of time—but _only_ for a short period of time. Then the knowledge, the weight of the lives around him would come crashing back. He would take up the mantle of leadership again, if only because of the lives he cherished.

_The right to carry the Matrix is earned, _he mentally reminded himself. _Fate chose me because I _was_the answer. I cannot trust another to protect those I love._

And he loved them all, from human supporter to oldest mech friend, as a Creator would love his sparklings. That very reason alone was why he stood before the dreaded doors to medical facilities in that moment.

Arcee stood straight and tall to the right of the door, her optics forward and staring with indifference down the hall he had just exited. He knew better than to believe the femme was only seeing the metal walls and concrete floor beyond. Her systems would be on full alert, her sensors scanning in a variety of frequencies and on spectrums of existence not even guessed at by human minds. He spared a nod for her as he would have acknowledged Bumblebee or any other guardian.

And secretly he hid the smile that wanted to form on his lip plates at how the femme seemed to stand a bit taller, her optics just that much brighter at his acknowledgement. He would not tell her in that moment that her reaction was one of the reasons he remained Prime. For no matter how tired he was, how dark his mood, the actions like those of Arcee renewed him in ways he could never express. They showed their respect and gratitude for the mental and physical punishments he survived in order to make sure that they existed but one more cycle.

If his simple nod to one of his soldiers gave them the energy to endure, then their expressions of gratitude in return could grant him the strength to remain. He permitted a fraction of that smile to cross his face plates as he put his hand on the release mechanism for the doors.

As expected, the press of his palm on the security plate did not grant him access. _Medically sealed, per Chief Medical Officer Ratchet_was the words that scrolled across the screen above it. Command overrides were denied, and unless he was willing to whip out the matrix and press the point as Prime, he wasn't getting into the medical facilities that way. He wasn't certain if that was amusing to his overworked mainfraime, or if it was an annoyance.

He chose to go with the later and let polite custom take the lead instead of brute force. _Ratchet, a moment of your time, please._

The answer was flat static on the comm. line and Optimus waited patiently for Ratchet to disconnect himself from whatever he was doing and pick up the signal.

_Optimus?_ Concern managed to leak through the signal, blended with a healthy dose of surprise that the Prime had apparently come to med bay of his own volition. _Is something wrong?_

_Not at this juncture, old friend. I need to speak with… with your mate and yourself._

The concern vanished, replaced with an angry weariness that Optimus sympathized with down to the core of his own circuits. Apparently he wasn't the only mech on base that had been neglecting his recharge berth or energon. _My mate and myself? I thought you wanted to speak with her alone._

_That would not be prudent at this time. Situations have changed. This concerns you both as sparkmates._

_Then it will have to wait, Optimus. I'm in the middle of something._

He was able to glean a fraction of what had his CMO so angry, the frustration leaking through the line was enough, but the databurst image of the rather menacing glare Lydia had bestowed upon the medic sealed the deal. Optimus fought not to shake his head in a human expression of resignation. Ratchet and his mate were in a spat. Again. _Is it spark threatening?_

_It could be._ Ratchet replied, almost distractedly.

_Then we share that point in common._

He could almost see the medic pause over his work, tilting his head to the side in the way that he always did when puzzled. _Explain, please._

_I need to speak with you both as your Prime and would prefer a less intimidating setting than med bay. _he responded, purposely leaving off the thought that Ratchet only had a finite number of wrenches to throw when outside his personal domain. _It is time certain aspects of your mate's existence come to light._

_If this is about choosing a clan, I can report that we were in deep discussion over the options before her coding activated.. _

Surprise nearly twisted his face plates at that. A human with base coding… Again, it was a thought for another time. _It is. _Optimus confirmed. _And it is more than that. Will your mate come to harm outside the medical facility?_

Ratchet hesitated, taking a moment to finally come to a decision. _Not so long as I am with her. _

_Then it is settled. My office as soon as you can manage._

~*~*~*~*~*~

She paced.

Lydia crossed from one side of the Autobot-sized medical berth to the other until her leg muscles protested, fatiguing quickly from her weeks of recovery. _Can't even die and start over correctly, can I? I am so out of shape. But then again, it's my shape—at least inside—that's the problem. _Still, she pressed on, ignoring the burning in her thighs an and calves and the way her breath quickened with the exertion. It was only when the tiny bit of metal whizzed past her right shoulder that she realized someone had taken notice of her activites.

Lydia jerked back on instinct, blinking in surprise as Kup's hand flashed outward, silently catching the tiny--by Cybertronian standards at any rate--projectile before it made yet another dent in the steel wall. He lifted his eyebrow ridges at her stare, and just as silently pointed behind her with his other hand. Part of her didn't want to follow that pointing digit, already knowing where it was going to lead her.

_I can't hit you with a wrench, but that doesn't mean I won't find another way to get your attention. _Ratchet pushed through the mental road-block she had put between their bond._ Stop it. I asked you not to stress your systems._

She didn't bother to dignify that with a reply. He was right, of course, but that didn't mean she had to let him know that. He was the one being the aft, to borrow the phrase. Instead, she gave her screaming muscles a break and crossed her arms over her chest, careful not to touch directly over her spark. The tapping of on expensively attired foot began, much to the annoyance of more than one mech in the room.

When that lost its appeal, she went back to glaring. None of the before mentioned activities did anything to phase or alert her companions. Muted clicks, whirls, and sounds that seemed half-swallowed to her human ears, echoed around her as their conversation continued.

Which was half the annoyance. They were somehow blocking her receptors from hearing the translation of their conversation. So while she heard the audible and unidentifiable side with her ears, within her head it felt as if she were locked inside her old flight helmet while being locked inside the cockpit inside the hangar below deck while the top deck guide waved his flags just beyond her vision. She could see the swirling colors without being able to interpret the signals to action. It was the only way she could describe the feeling that came with being blocked externally.

And that had to be the worst part of the whole bloody ordeal.

"I should be allowed to hear it," she muttered bitterly, flopping down on the edge of the berth, her legs swinging freely over the side. "It's only my life. Not that I seem to have a say about my body and what goes in or out of it."

Ratchet raised an eyebrow, looking like he was ready for another snarky disagreement at her outburst. It was the depression in Lydia's tone that stopped him, her posture as she sat rather dejectedly on the side of the berth. Something shifted in his gaze, the terse exterior of the medic folding smoothly into that of loving mate. Cursing himself silently, he crossed to the medical berth in a few easy strides, offering his hand to her, palm upward. She stared at it, then up into his optics, and finally sighed, climbing onto the offered fingers. Ratchet lifted her gently, their optics meeting on an even level.

"I have been an aft," he said softly. "I have neglected your desires in this matter."

Of all the things he could have said, this was the one she wasn't expecting. The admission of wrong-doing nearly had her jaw dropping and her body pin-wheeling off his hand. Even with the added protection of his curled fingers, her suddenly unsteady legs deposited her on her rump with a total lack of grace. Those adorable eyebrow ridges (a phrase she used in reference to him, and then only in the depths of her heart), narrowing as he frowned.

"I see your flare for the dramatics recovered as swiftly as your body," he groused, though she could feel the kindness pulsing in their shared spark-rhythm. "You make it seem as if this is the first time I have ever admitted to my own errors. I assure you, this isn't the first nor will it be the last."

She really did want to remain angry with him. He deserved it and they both knew it. And yet, maybe because of how expressive his face could be, how sincere the blue of his optics could blaze, she found the majority of her upset fading away. The smile that formed on her lips was still sharp, to be certain, but it also carried a warmth to it she never thought she could express.

"You were being an aft," she reconfirmed, her smile growing more impish with each spoken word. "You are mostly forgiven, by the way. Though I retain my right as your mate to give you grief later because of it."

"Mostly," he vented air in a snort. "While I do not acknowledge that so-called 'right of grief,' I will grant that you are in the right in reference to your medical condition. You should be allowed to know what we are discussing, now that we have come to a consensus of sorts."

"Consensus?" she echoed, the smile wilting around the edges as her eyes traveled the room.

"We weren't keeping things from you on purpose. Well, we _were_doing exactly that, but not for the reasons you think," Wheeljack interjected quickly, his side-bars flashing in colors of faint embarrassment. "We are concerned about the way you and your spark reacted to Captain Eddard. What we needed to do was isolate those reasons before we could attempt to counteract the problem."

"It was faster to collect and sift through the data without having to… Without trying to find a way to easily…" Jolt tried to explain, trailing off. He flicked a glance at Ratchet and then one at Wheeljack. Either looking for help or hoping not to offend.

The wilted smile turned into a twisted smirk. "Don't hold back on my account, Jolt," Lydia put in. "Let me guess, you are trying to find a polite way of saying 'without having to dumb the explanation down in little words that humans can understand,' right?"

The relief that washed across the junior medic's face was almost comical. It was well-known that Jolt was not the most accepting of mechs to life among the humans, or technologically backward organic beings as he called them. His point of view made him appear very stand-offish to many assigned to the base. At least, until you got to know him a little.

"Yes," Jolt replied swiftly, then flinched at the unfriendly look Ratchet sent his way. "It was easier to discuss this among ourselves without having to explain each step to you so that you could process it correctly. You are like a new sparkling to our form of existence. Your spark is most likely feeling overwhelmed as it is."

The spark in her chest had some choice feelings towards Jolt and his assessment of its processing capabilities. None of them were of the pleasant persuasion. She sent what she hoped was an unpleasant feeling of her own towards the angry little bit of light. Now wasn't the time to argue with the other half of herself. The spark seemed to ignore that metaphysical look, turning its attention to Jolt and how it wanted to defend itself.

Lydia signed, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, trying to shut out the rest of the world. It was easier to do that, she noted, if she was touching Ratchet. Her spark drew heavily on his when they were in contact with each other, pulling in deep breaths of his steadfast calmness for lack of a better way to describe it. So long as Ratchet did not physically respond to Jolt's accident insult, the spark within her held its ground.

It was as if her spark recognized the stronger, more experienced spark in his chamber and tried to follow its example.

And that gave her an idea.

Lydia concentrated on that sharp warmth within her body, in the flowing of calm energy from her mate, letting her mind fill with the blue-white radiance that pulsed instead of her heart. It appeared before her mind's eye in the shape of a Cybertronian and yet all she could see was the outline. It was as if the Cybertronian in question stood between her and the nearly overwhelming light of the spark, so that she only caught a glimpse of the outside edges of it. Weapons blistered across its streamlined body, snarls that were not really words or even sounds emanating from it.

Like in the hallway with Josh, it recognized an insult when it heard one, regardless of the truth behind that perceived insult.

_Calm down_, she sent to it soothingly. _He's an aft with the narrow views of a spoiled youngling. We all know this. It's his nature. We can't go around challenging everyone that makes us angry. We are not a Decepticon. Stop, okay?_

It turned to look at her, and she knew somehow that it wanted to be mad. It deserved the right to be mad. Custom dictated that it had the right to challenge the insulting mech to regain that lost bit of honor. Lydia almost smirked at that. It was as if the spark were behaving like a child—an insanely powerful alien child, mind you—but a child nonetheless. It had had it's feelings bruised and wanted to lash out.

Maybe there was something to Jolt's theory of her spark being like a new sparkling. Hadn't Nova and Prima said something to that effect in that eerie egyptain-sand-dreamlike-poker-game-place?

Lydia let go of the calming stream of energy from her mate, drawing instead on her own personal experiences growing up. She fed those memories to her spark, lending it access to her mind just this one time. The sharp heat cooled slightly, sharing in the knowledge that some battles weren't meant to be fought hand-to-hand. That there could be more honor found in backing down from a fight rather than instigating one. It wasn't happy, but it agreed with her and calmed itself. For now, at least.

When she opened her eyes, every optic in the room was staring at her. Including Kup's. She lifted both eyebrows, looking at them in return and then finally glancing at her mate. Energy signatures danced in the air before her optic, radiating from each of them in turn and washing through the room like a wave of warmly charged air. It only lasted for a moment, and just for that moment she had realized that some of that energy racing through the room had come from herself.

"Uh, did I do something wrong?" she asked softly.

"No," Ratchet said slowly, eyeing her carefully. "I think you just did something right. We have been trying to puzzle out how your programming came online in the first place. I think now we have the answer."

Lydia lifted an eyebrow at that, trying not to figit under the heavy gaze of five Autobots. "All I did was try to calm my spark down. It was… well… to put it bluntly, it was offended at Jolt's statement. No offense intended, Jolt. But the spark in my chest isn't human and doesn't like being referred to negatively like that."

"What did you do to calm it?" Kup spoke up, his tone nearly causing her to jump once more. He'd been silent the entire time, so much so that she had nearly forgotten him.

"I… spoke with it, I guess you could say. Told it to calm down."

"Just that?" Kup asked.

Lydia shrugged a shoulder, fingers wrapping around one of Ratchet's on reflex. Not that she expected the old mech to move against her. But the way he was staring at her… "Not exactly. I shared a memory or two with it. It listened, agreed with me, and calmed down. Mostly at any rate. Why?"

All the mechs in the room seemed to share the same look for a moment. "We believe that your parts are transmitting electrical impulses to the tissues of your central proces—brain," Ratchet corrected swiftly. "Your human mind stores information in chemical and electrical code formats. It is our belief that your spark is interpreting the organic makeup of those chemical and electrical signals. In essence, it is rewiring portions of your cerebral parts in order for you to understand the impulses it sends to you. Your sharing of memories with it only confirms the theory. That should not have been possible at this stage."

Lydia stared at him with wide eyes, not ready to believe what he was telling her. At this stage? Should not have been possible? Her spark was rewiring her brain? Would it kill her? "So, what, exactly, does that mean?" she asked, trying to keep some of the fear out of her voice. And failing. "Is it taking over my body? If I continue to share memories with it, will we merge into one entity?"

"No," he replied firmly but soothingly. "Calm yourself, light of my life. I will not let that happen. For now, you appear to be two separate entities sharing the same frame. However, given that our two races are so drastically different, I do not believe you need to fear becoming an organic combiner entity or anything of that sort. For now…"

She swallowed past the giant lump of fear that had wedged itself into her throat, drawing on their bond and the love and fierce protectiveness he sent across it. "For now you have to run more tests, though, right?"

He sent sympathy into that cocktail of gentle emotions. "Yes," he said aloud, and through their bond she heard her beloved say _Brace yourself._

She barely had time to flinch before four sets of scans hit her head-on at the same time. Somewhere in that dazzled state that accompanied the feeling of a million tingles racing across her skin, she saw Kup move to her side. Her internal comm. activated almost of its own accord.

_Describe your feelings._ He stated.

_Somewhere between pissed off at all the scanning, terrified that I'm going to wake up one day and not be 'me' anymore, and slightly amused by my mate's actions?_ She replied, trying to organize her thoughts past the need to squirm in her mate's hand.

She could almost see the ancient mech's glare within her mind. At the very least she felt the phantom smack he wanted so desperately to deliver to the back of her helm. The problem being, of course, that she didn't have a helm and any smack from his hand would offline her permanently. _Smart aft. You're just as bad as your mate._

_Gee, thanks. That's the kindest thing you've said to me all day._

Kup harrumphed, still glaring hard at her. _I'm talking about whatever it is that has you about to jump out of your armor—your fleshling skin, I mean. You mentioned something was wrong._

Lydia fought through the disorientation that came with being hit with so many scans at once. _Yes!_She nearly screamed, not even apologizing as Kup flinched at the intensity of that reply. _I don't know what it means, but I keep returning to Joshua and Banachek. Just something both have said to me at different times. I can't explain it more than that. Only that something is wrong and it could involve those two and threatens us all._

Kup pursed his lip plates, stepping back as the medics stepped closer, talking to themselves on private lines as they digested the latest bits of information from her scans. _Not much to go on, is it?_

_I've gone on less when I flew missions, myself._

_True. I have done much the same. Tell you what. You promise to stay put and let your mate fix you right and I'll look into the whereabouts of this Joshua and Banachek._

She could have hugged him, she was so relieved. _Deal._

~*~*~*~*~*~

Samuel James Witwicky was not a happy man.

He tried not to show this to those in the room, sitting back in his usual chair as if this was just another average super-secret alien-human meeting. He'd long ago come to the conclusion that, had any other human found themselves in his position, they would have either gone mad like his Great-great Grandfather, or probably would have run for their lives. He'd tried the whole 'run for it' thing in his own way, choosing to head off to college and attempt to have a normal life.

_That had lasted a whole two days, Witwicky,_ he chided himself. _Dying and returning to bring Optimus back to life. Seemed easy then. Get the Matrix, use it, and then what? Prowl, Ironhide and Ratchet telling me that college is a waste of my time and talent. My future is with them. _

He winced, rubbing the fingers of one hand across his eyes and leaned his head back. The fact that the Matrix of the Ancient Primes had flared to life at his touch only added more fuel to that trio's belief. Even 'Bee had jumped on that bandwagon, but at least reminded Sam that he would support whatever decision Sam made. If Sam wanted to have this 'normal life' then 'Bee would respect that.

The Ancient Primes weren't all that understanding.

And they let him know that in sidebar after sidebar each time he laid down to sleep, putting the icing on the proverbial cake of his future. This whole business with Lydia and her purpose in the stream of time had them more agitated than ever. The first bit of good-night's sleep he'd earned was after he'd agreed to go to Diego Garcia and speak with Optimus directly. The eight-hour flight in Silverbolt's cargo hold was like heaven. Just pure and blissfully dreamless sleep. He was learning it was just easier to do what they wanted when it came to the remnants of their race.

Not that he blamed them, all things considered. Would he have done any different if their positions were reversed?

So there he sat, the human bridge between the Cybertron that Was and the Future Yet to Be. Sometimes he didn't feel all that important or powerful. In fact, most of the times he felt rather weak for hefting such an enormous responsibility. But helf it he did, and when the Primes came to him in the dreams, he always answered. He had failed two classes so far due to absences on account of his 'otherworldly duties' and now had to work twice as hard if he wanted to graduate on time.

That wasn't what had him in a piss-poor mood, however. It was Trent, or more to the point, it was the way Trent had been reacting around MiKaela.

For the past two weeks, he had spent some time getting to know his former nemesis. He had found that he and Trent shared a multitude of things in common, even a few extra-curricular activities that had them exchanging pleasant conversation instead of terse words. Sam was a lot stronger now, the bloom of his adolescence fading and the strength of the man emerging. His experiences with never knowing when he would suddenly have to run for his life had taught him the virtue of keeping himself in decent shape. His love for MiKaela and the way her eyes lit up when took his shirt off was another strong impetus to keep up his workouts.

And while he couldn't compete with Trent when throwing the football, he could run about as fast, and pump almost as much iron as the other man. Computers and cars and many of the same rock bands also left them much to talk about. When not locked into their private rooms to correspond with their respective colleges to keep up on coursework, they had found more than one occasion to share a meal together. What had begun as grudging respect had turned into a few laughs here and there.

But when MiKaela walked into the room, all the camaraderie in Trent's eyes turned to ice in an instant. Trent quickly found another reason to be anywhere else than twenty feet around her in any direction. Near as Sam could figure out, it wasn't out of pining for some lost love, but almost as she was an insult to him now, like a stain on his reputation. And he was rude to the point of being offensive about it.

It was annoying.

It was seriously beginning to piss him off.

"What troubles you, Sam?" Optimus rumbled softly.

Sam jerked in his seat, sitting upright and glancing up at the other. "What makes you think something's troubling me?"

Optimus glanced at the arms of Sam's chair. "Your fingers are white with strain, your heart and respiration rates have increased. And you are grinding your back teeth again."

He blinked, looking down at the death grip he had on the arms of his seat and let go quickly. "Sorry. Just thinking about stuff," Sam muttered, flexing his fingers to get the blood flowing again. "How long is it going to take before Ratchet gets here?"

The blue of Optimus's eyes dimmed slightly, either checking some internal clock or receiving a comm. message. "Unknown at this time," he replied. "You have another pressing engagement?"

Sam frowned, flipping up his sleeve to check his watch. "Not as important as this, but I'd rather not leave MiKaela and Trent alone at the dinner table together. I really don't want to have to explain to Prowl why both are in the brig."

"Ah," the ancient warrior mech nodded as if in understanding. "Matters of the spark, but current and in the past, are complicated."

"Really? Your girlfriend's ex show up and treat her rudely when you are around? But you have to set the example by being the calm and rational one when all you want to do is pound said idiot's head in?"

Optimus blinked his optics, amused at the intensity in Sam's words. An amusement he wisely kept hidden. "How is MiKaela handling it?" he asked instead, trying to divert that part of the conversation.

"Threatening to borrow Ratchet's wrenches."

Optimus could not help but grin at Sam's words, simultaneously imaging MiKaela hurling wrenches and remembering the first time he had met Lydia DeMarco. The little human femme holding a wrench almost the same size as her frame, hefting it in the air and threatening to throw it back at Ratchet. Even to a race as long-lived as his own, that moment seemed vorns and vorns ago instead of a matter of human months. His smile faded a bit and he sent another comm. towards the med bay.

"She has a strong spark, but a good one," he said aloud, privately referring to both Lydia and MiKaela. "And I have faith that you will work out a solution, Sam. Violence is not in your nature."

"Nor is it in Ironhide's, but he seems to do pretty well at it," Sam huffed, grinning as the bit of smile returned to Optimus's lips. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, big guy."

"And thank you, Sam, for your friendship."

The Autobot leader looked as if he were about to say more until the doors to his office parted…


	36. Chapter 36 Dreams

A/N: Wow. This is my longest chapter yet! I wanted to get this out by Valentine's day as a special gift for everyone that has read, reviewed, and made this story a favorite. Alas, I fell short of that. Still, this is my thank you for staying with me during all the crazy twists and turns, and it's a special gift to all the Lydia/Ratchet fans out there that wanted to see a bit more of them in that special place. :D That being said... **WARNING NOW:** **This chapter almost had me pushing the rating to M. For those that want to skip that bit of Fluff, head to the second part of this chapter. The second and third parts have been written in such a way as to make sense without reading the first section of this chapter. This is _NOT_** **scary human-on-mech, so don't worry. You will see what I mean when/if you read. **Sorry if this offends anyone. I felt it important to place a warning before continuing. :)

For everyone else, this is my Thank You for the support, reviews and private messages that help make this story what it is. I hope you enjoy it. :D

A special shout out goes to **Hummergrey** and **Razorgaze **for their hard work beta'ing the craziness that I call my writing. They both have amazing fics that are linked in my profile page. Please go and read and enjoy as much as I do. These stories are so well worth the read! **Spark Call** was created by **Hummergrey** and used with her permission. The write-up in detail can be found on her profile page.

As promised, the next five chapters of music. Almost caught up!

Chapter 26: Arrival Part 2  
Come Undone - Duran Duran  
Enjoy the Silence - Depeche Mode  
Harder to Breathe - Maroon 5

Chapter 27: Friendship  
Birdhouse in your Soul - They Might be Giants

Chapter 28: Friendship Part 2  
Waiting (Save your Life) - Omnisoul  
I Feel Lucky - Mary Chapin Carpenter

Chapter 29: Conversation Part 2  
Beauty from Pain - Superchick  
Passive - A Perfect Circle  
The Game - Distrubed

Chapter 30: Consequences  
Roadside - Rise Against  
Walking in My Shoes - Finger Eleven

Disclaimer: As always, I do not own Transformers or the music listed above. This is purely for fun. Please do not sue.

* * *

Lydia was dreaming again. She had to be.

Somewhere between that last scan and the news that in a short time they had an appointment with Optimus Prime, she must have nodded off. Her energy levels still fluctuated every so often, her body just shy of fully recovered after the many surgeries it took to save her life. Now there was a whole new round of scans and tests permeating her body. It took a lot out of her, more so than she was willing to let on. Not to mention that a small fraction of her was certain that her spark drew on her own life energy in order to keep going, further adding to the bouts of fatigue.

Not that she could really blame the thing. It's wasn't like she had a fresh supply of energon to feed it all the time. And trying to ingest the acidly liquid herself was definitely out of the question. It would kill her faster than she could blink and probably hurt more than she could imagine. She _was_ only human after all…

… which was why she knew this had to be a dream.

Lydia stared down at her metal fingers, gazing with awe at the delicate strength in their design. They were not squared off as her mate's, and weren't held together with rivets and bearings like the other Autobots. On the contrary, they were slender and tapered at the tip, the metal flexing like a mesh in the joint locations instead of turning, giving her a freedom of movement that she never would have believed possible otherwise.

Her optics—still jade green if the tinge of color around her vision was any indication—traveled from her finger digits down her silvery palms and wrists, her arm twisting as she admired the dark, dark blue of her armor. The little flecks of silver in her paint weren't really flecks of material, she noted with a thrill of delight. They were tiny, almost microscopic lights that twinkled here and there. Like stars.

Her hands, once visibly inspected, joined in on the exploration of her frame, sliding down her shapely chest armor to her slender waist plates, continuing to curve down over ample hip coverings. The sensations she could feel through her armor was also a pleasure to her processor. She could actually feel through it, and not like a human could feel through the clothing they wore. No, this was more like the moment the pieces attached to her protoframe, a thousand million sensors came online.

It was literally like the armor was a part of her. Any damage to it would register like damage on organic tissue. And somehow she knew the moment she detached the armor, those sensations would fade. She had often wondered why the mechs and femmes did not share armor pieces, or that discarded materials weren't scavenged from fallen enemies. Now she knew. Each armor piece bonded to the mech or femme in question and would only respond to his or her specific sensor connections. Elaborate and painstaking work would be needed in order to modify the armor to work with another Cybertronian.

No wonder Sunstreaker fussed so much over his parts.

She felt a smile curve on her lip plates as she slid off the medical berth. "You chose a great dream-form for me, beloved."

Ratchet stood at the nearest science station, his back to her. She could make out the tiny sounds as he transformed each finger into whatever tool he needed in order to complete his work. "I didn't choose it, femme of mine," He remarked casually without turning around. "You did."

"I did?" Lydia laughed, crossing the distance between them and resting her head against his back shoulder plates. "Trust me, Grumpy, while I have a great imagination, it's no where near this good. I couldn't have come up with this on my own."

He paused for a second, leaning his head back and to the side until his helm brushed hers. She felt most of the tension drain from his frame, felt the contentment echoing from his spark as he did. Her spark hummed in perfect synchronization with his, turning what was such a simple gesture of touching helm to helm into something much more intimate and powerful. It was enough to send tiny rivulets of tingly sparks throughout her systems, setting her parts ablaze with warmth, desire, and love.

"Maybe you had help," he whispered, his lip plates ghosting over her helm, setting her already heated systems into overdrive.

"From you?" she purred, wrapping her arms around his waist.

"From your spark."

That caused her to blink her optic guards in surprise, her intake systems venting air. "How would it know what you want?"

Ratchet chuckled, his lip plates placing one more kiss on her helm before he turned back to his work. "Not what I want, femme of mine, but what you want."

"Okay, how would it know what I want?"

"Come and have a look for yourself."

A small shudder of dread made its way up her spinal support structure, chasing away some of the eager warmth. Her arms instinctively wrapped around him tighter. Suddenly, she didn't want to see what he was working on in that science station. Couldn't she just live the rest of her life in this moment? It was safe here, warm here, and reminded her strangely enough of the golden place in which they were mated.

"I-I don't want to," she admitted, biting her lower lip plate before tucking herself in closer to him. "I have a much better idea. Why don't you take a break?"

Her hands slipped across his chest armor as she had once seen Chromia do to Ironhide, finding a gap in his armor and running her finger across and down that gap. Silently, she prayed that what she had seen in that brief moment before she had literally backed out of the break room at all speed wasn't just specific to Ironhide. She felt him jolt in surprise, the bond between them letting her know that her fears were unfounded. She had located a sensitive spot, the wiring below a neural connection… and that it wasn't a bad thing by any stretch of the imagination. A smile replaced her look of fear, listening as his intake valves pulled in great amounts of air.

"Femme, you know not what you do," his half-whispered/half-moaned.

"Then teach me," she whispered back, her desire flowing to him through their bond. Her finger found that sensitive bit of circuitry again and pressed, eliciting the same response. "Your work will keep until later. If this is our moment, let it be ours."

His hands reached up to cup her own, one wrapping around her wrist and carefully removing her touch. Her smile turned into a pout, momentarily believing he was going to turn her down, and then turned into something else entirely at the look in his optics. There were no words for what she saw, only that it left her feeling weak and dizzy and utterly alive at the same time.

Ratchet pulled her close, hands traveling up her arms with an aching slowness that set fire to her limbs in its wake. She trembled, quaked down to her core by the time his hands reached her face, cupping it between them. And when his mouth plates touched hers, all thoughts in her processors fled. Her spark had become a giant ball of pulsating need, and the armor she had so delighted in moments ago felt constrictive and heavy and… and just in the way.

She could feel him chuckling through their bond just as she was certain he could feel her eagerness to interface with him.

"Slowly, light of my spark. Slowly," he whispered, thumbs delicately tracing the lines of her cheek plates. "We have all the time in the universe."

Her hands rested on his shoulder armor, fingers aching to remove it from him. And when his hands slipped back to her waist and suddenly pulled her in tight against him, she thought she was going to jump right out of her armor and devour him whole. She couldn't form the words to call him a tease, couldn't find the processor space to make some sarcastic remark that she knew would delight and enflame him all the more. Every circuit and subroutine she possessed was focused on not loosing control.

Those amazing hands, the hands that saved countless lives on countless worlds, that could deal both life and death on and off the battlefield, hoisted her up until her legs were wrapped around his waist. Only then, with only the metal of their armor separating their sparks from one another, did he carry her towards the nearest medical berth. It took forever and not long enough for him to lay her down, for his massive frame to brace above hers. And then he let her explore, optics dimming and body arching here and there when she found a particularly sensitive spot.

Her own optics filled with wonder as piece by piece, his protoform was revealed to her. So much strength and power, she mused, rising up to let her mouth touch what her fingers were too busy elsewhere to experience. He was pure mech, strong enough to fill any warrior position if he desired, and yet he chose medicine, chose to let others see him as a weaker in order to serve the greater good of his race. He chose to be reserve in his actions, chose to serve instead of lead or fight.

And, in that moment, he chose to give all that power and strength into her hands. He could offline her in less than a blink of an optic, or take what he wanted from her regardless of her feelings. But that wasn't his nature, wasn't why he wanted to be with her.

"I love you," she whispered aloud, wanting to hear the words as much as feel them as she spoke. "I love you so much that it scares me sometimes."

His optics burned so brightly they was almost hard to look at. "And I you. So much so that it scares me. But I am willing to face that fear every nano-klik as long as you want me."

"Forever!" she whispered fiercely.

In a way she could never relate to another human, she felt her chest plating starting to part, saw the brightness of his optics only eclipsed by the radiance of his spark as his did the same. The angry spark she knew, that she fought with constantly, transformed into something else entirely in that moment. It softened and reached for the love it needed, the love _they_ needed to exist… and then she saw only blindingly hot light as their sparks merged.

They were one thought.

They were one life.

They were one existence.

And then pleasure beyond imagining washed away all other sensations.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was dim in the med bay when she onlined her optics again, the only light given off by various pieces of medical equipment powered down to standby mode. She tried not to frown, confusion twisting through her circuits. Shouldn't she have woken up to reality by now? Not that she wanted leave this place at all, but it wasn't the truth of her existence. She wasn't an Autobot and this wasn't her true form.

She was human… wasn't she?

And why did she suddenly find it hard to answer that question? Her processors must be fogged, that was it. She'd heard that after an overload as intense as theirs had been, it was expected to have some systems slower to come online than others. As a consequence, she pushed that question aside.

Lydia let her systems take their time to climb back to online status, doing her best not to alert the mech curled up beside her. Ratchet lay in deep recharge, one arm wrapped around her waist, holding her against him. Even in all the confusion, she found herself sparing a moment to look on him with wonder. There was still a slight smile to the set of his mouth plates even as he lay in rest, an aura of contented peace emanating from his being.

That smile was her fault, and she gleefully took the blame for it. Just to see him at peace, to watch vorns upon vorns of battle stress fade from him for just a joor. He looked younger somehow, like he was truly showing his age. Her fingertips traced gently across his optic ridges, down the nose plate and then finally to caress his mouth. War had aged him greatly, stolen the mirth from his spark and replaced it with a kind of dreadful purpose.

But for now, in this strange place where they could come together as mates, he could shelf his worries and let his true self show.

"I love you, my stubborn mech," she whispered with a grin. "Rest and dream the dreams of an unburdened spark."

It was slow going to remove herself from his embrace without waking him, a complicated dance of careful shifts and slides. Eventually her foot pads touched the floor and she took a moment to stretch stiff gears and get the lubrication lines flowing again. While she was at it, she activated internal diagnostic scans, checking routines and parts alike to make sure everything was in working order. It wouldn't do to start the cycle with a busted cog or with a leak in an important line. Talk about embarrassing!

Chuckling to herself, she crossed the room to where her mate kept the energon cubes. Selecting one at random, she interacted with the subspace field around the precious fluid on instinct, only marginally aware of the fact that she shouldn't be able to do that in first place. That made her pause, her lip plates pulling down in a frown. Why shouldn't she be able to interact with a subspace field? And wasn't there another question she should be considering right now?

Frowning harder, she ordered another scan of her systems and when that came back clear, she shrugged. Maybe she and her mate had sparked harder than she thought if her processors were still this fogged up. That made her giggle. Ironhide and Chromia so did not have the corner market on intense sparkings if she had anything to say about it. Leaning against the wall, her optics focused on the sleeping form of her beloved, she drew deeply on her energon cube—

—and nearly dropped the thing as a voice in her processors screeched at the top of its range. _POISON! NO! DON'T! STOP! KILL US! NONONOnonono…_

Lydia sputtered energon all over her hands, optics wide and battle routines bristling through her systems. Her targeting locks searched frantically for the owner of that voice, outrage blazing in her spark. How dare someone break through the medical coding on the door and interrupt her mate's rest! How dare they accuse him of keeping poisoned energon! She'd blast them all the way back to the Matrix for so much as processing the idea.

Scans detected and reported only herself and her mate in the immediate area. Even the adjacent wings of the medical facility were oddly empty of life signs. That should have bothered her, too. Normally Red Alert or Jolt was present when Ratchet took his recharge time. Everymech knew that. Med bay was not to be unmanned at ANY time per Ratchet's own orders.

So where was everyone?

Her first thought was battle. Something had happened and there was a battle going on. That line of logic was immediately dismissed as she found a cloth to wipe up the spilled energon. Ratchet had hard coded serious programs into his processors that would alert him if so much as the word 'battle' left Ironhide or Prime's comm. lines. In any form. No depths of recharge would keep him from that knowledge.

She leaned back against the wall, sipping at the remaining cube and trying not to frown again. Linking up with the mainframe showed every Autobot's schedule for the next earth week and there were no pertinent meetings that required everyone to attend. So, where was everyone? Again, she frowned. That wasn't the question she was supposed to be pondering. Wasn't there something she had she asked herself when she had first come out of recharge?

Her fingers toyed with the empty cube as she wracked her mainframe for the answer. It was something to do with… with what she was. Well, that was idiotic. She knew who she was. She was on the Autobot side of the war, mated to Ratchet, his only beloved. Her designation was Lydia. But that didn't answer _what_she was. Nor did that tell her why someone had tried to warn her not to ingest the energon.

Which was stupid, too, she reflected in frustration, disengaging the empty cube field and watching it dissolve into nothingness in her palm. The energon was perfectly fine. The unfamiliar taste had been a pleasure that had warmed her parts like always… right?

But if it warmed her parts like always, why had she described its taste as unfamiliar? And why the frag was she in med bay anyway? Didn't she and her mate have quarters together?

And where in the known universe _was_everybot?

And why, by Primus, couldn't she remember the slaggin' question she asked herself when she onlined her optics!

Lydia whipped around, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. Her cooling fans kicked in, her spark racing with her anger. She needed something to throw, just some way to expel the rage building up inside. She _should_ be able to remember a simple question. She wasn't some glitch-spawned malfunction. Her fingers reached for the first thing on the table—

—and nearly jerked back in alarm.

Ratchet's experiment, the one she had distracted him from earlier, flickered and pulsed before her optics. Horror filled her, watching the pulsating bluish-white ball of light twinkle as if in response to her rage. Oh, no… No, had she distracted him from shelling a sparkling? Had he actually left a sparkling unattended and unprotected like that just to spark-merge with her?

She wasn't sure where she felt the most horror, at herself for being the distraction, or at her mate for allowing her to pull him away from this precious, almost sacred work. Her tanks churned horribly, threatening to expel the energon she had just enjoyed. What would she say to that sparkling's creators? How would she ever meet their gazes again?

She just about called out to her mate when the spark pulsed again, brighter this time. Almost as if in a trace, she took a step towards it, optics locked on its radiant light… or rather, what that light hovered above. There was something there, some kind of tiny form just below and behind the glowing ball of life. It was too small to be a sparkling shell.

And even as her optics narrowed and zoomed in on the thing in question, dread began to fill her core. It replaced the horror and reminded her of why she did not want to look at this experiment in the first place. But it was already too late to pull back, her optics locking onto the form. She couldn't make it out the details, not with the spark's light flashing above it. But she could have sworn the shape was familiar, intimately familiar, actually.

It was the outline of a human female, one with long rangy limbs and hair cut short and curled around her head… almost like a helm of curls. In fact she had personally had it cut that way after the battle in the airplane. There hadn't been much to cut anyway, much of it having burned off in the fire—

Her optics widened, the dread and horror overtaking her in a rush. This wasn't an experiment. She was looking down at herself _through_the barrier of her spark, much like she had tried to see through her spark to get to the femme in her head. Then, she had stood as human, only seeing an outline of the Cybertronian's form. Now she stood as the Cybertronian, staring across the expanse of her spark at the outline of the human.

Her optics dimmed and flickered, the world tilting out of control, and the question she had asked herself in the beginning was…

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was dark again.

The swirling air was warm against her skin, her body cradled with the softness of sand. Lydia was willing to bet heavily on the idea that she knew exactly where she was this time. The problem with that being that she did not want to be there, nor did she want to face the conversation that was surely to follow. After that wonderful moment with Ratchet, after being able to hold the whole of him in her arms and not just grasp his finger, to stare down at him while he slept, this was the last place she ever wanted to find herself.

She wanted that dream back. She wanted to loose herself there forever. And it was so fragging unfair that she couldn't. She curled in tighter on herself, nestled in the sand in the fetal position, arms and legs drawn up and close to her chest. Tears leaked through her tightly closed eyes, the sorrow expanding in her chest finding no other release than the precious drops of fluid cascading down her cheeks.

Lydia tried to blame those tears on the pain of her healing injuries and not on the pity party that raged inside her. The logical, level-headed officer in her quickly discarded that silly notion. She was always in pain in some form or another and had been since the day Starscream shot her plane out from under her—literally.

But this pain… this was something altogether new. This was unlike anything she had ever experienced before. Part of her wanted to say the source of it was physically in her chest, and yet when her body followed her mind's notion, it found that the pain wasn't located in her chest at all. In fact, it could not pinpoint just where the pain began or ended. It was just everywhere and it wasn't physical, either.

"It's because you have a spark now," he whispered. "You're part of a collective whole that goes beyond your imagining."

She knew the voice, knew it from her last visit to this place… and knew for a fact that she was dreaming. That knowledge dimmed the phantom pain somewhat, made it bearable at the very least. Just as the knowledge of who was speaking to her somehow made everything tolerable. And somehow made everything worse. A new pain worked its way into the song of gloominess playing like an unwanted tune in the back of her mind. At least she knew where this note of sorrow came from.

"You shouldn't have died like that," she whispered back, slowly uncurling herself.

He laughed, the sound sad and beautifully masculine all at once. "Baby girl, most of us here shouldn't have checked out of reality the way we did. But that's not our call to make."

Had anyone else referred to her as 'baby girl' or 'sweetheart' or anything along those lines that wasn't a blood relation twice her age (or her mate, she corrected mentally), they would have received the rough end of her tongue in response. Pet names always bugged her for some reason, even though she was fond of handing them out to other people. It was a quirk, a flaw in her personality that somehow made her who she was.

But this mech… this mech could call her just about anything and it wouldn't have bothered her, just as long as he was around to call her by it.

"There's my girl," Jazz chuckled as she opened her eyes to gaze at him. "Nice to see your eyes back to the same color. That dual tone thing was a shade on the creepy side."

Jazz sat on what was left of the poker table, one leg free swinging, the other bent at the knee. One arm braced casually on that knee, the other extending a hand to her. His optics glittered an unnaturally bright blue, almost as if liquid gold moved behind his lenses. His armor was still that of what he wore on earth, shining silvery in the muted lights that came from everywhere and nowhere.

And though he sat on the table a good ten to twelve feet away from her, somehow his hand was close enough to help her stand. Like her last visit to this place, this twisted Egypt-like room with stone walls and seemingly no door in or out, she purposefully ignored the spatial distortions, accepting his offered hand and rising slowly to her feet. Once that was accomplished, once he lowered his arm, the laws of physics seemed to finish its coffee break and return to active duty. Regular dimensions returned between them.

She pushed the thoughts away, remembering Janice's warning to 'let go and accept' this place for what it was, focusing instead on her surroundings.

"Where is everyone?" Lydia asked, eyes taking in the sandy floor and the aged poker table, devoid of chairs and of any other people.

Jazz shrugged both shoulders, glancing around causally. "Guess they had something better to do."

"Something better than teaching whatever lesson I'm suppose to learn in this place?" She asked, lifting an eyebrow. "Last time I was here, your all knowing wisdom was to "let it go" if I wanted to save my life and Ratchet's."

"Worked, didn't it? And by letting go you both got what you needed," his visor rippled into existence, flashing left to right with silvery energy, a sexy smirk twisting his lip plates. "You seem to be enjoying the after effects."

She wanted to be offended by his phrasing, if not for the feeling that he'd somehow scanned her with that visor. His double meaning alone deserved her offense. The last thing she needed to be doing in this moment was talking about her spark-life/sex-life with a dead alien robot. Glancing at him, watching that smirk turn slowly into a gorgeous grin, she found herself smirking in return.

"Is it that obvious?"

He laughed at that. "No doubt, boo. No doubt. You radiate his signature like nobody's business. Our man Ratchet marked you good."

Her smirk vanished, emotions bristling so soon after the meeting with Banachek and the others. "What do you mean, marked me good? He used his own parts to _save_ me."

"Easy there, girl," he soothed, patting the table next to him in invitation. "What I'm throwing down here has nothing to do with parts and everything to do with Spark Call."

Her eyebrow arched again. "Spark call?"

"Spark Call," He nodded, putting emphasis on both words.

"Oh, well, when you give me a two word answer like that, how could I not understand what you mean completely?" she rolled her eyes, spreading her arms wide. "Jazz, what is going on? Why I am here and what in the world—or wherever this place is—is a spark call?"

Jazz looked upward, shaking his head almost ruefully. "And you chose me for this assignment, why? Nova would've been a better choice to explain things, femme to femme like. Ah, well. Nothing for it now." He glanced back at her, patting the table again. "You going to join me, or we gonna holler back and forth for the rest of the conversation?"

Lydia frowned again, arms crossing over her chest. She slowly glanced upward… and almost fell on her ass in the sand. Before, when she had visited this place for the weirdest poker game in intergalactic history, the room had terminated in darkness. There was no roof, no shadows, no nothing. Just endless unrelieved black. Now… blue-white lightning hung like a ball, pulsating and spinning, throwing out arcs of power here and there. It looked as if an electrical storm of massive proportions had broken out above their heads

Lydia threw herself backward against the wall. "Shit, Jazz! What is that?"

Jazz sighed, shaking his head once again. "You keep this up and you're gonna blow a spark spire. Calm down, sweetheart, it's nothing that will hurt you. You're standing in the center of the Matrix, is all. Now come and sit down."

The center of the… She turned that wide-eyed stare back on him. "How? Why?" she sputtered. "Does this mean I died again? Oh god, Ratchet will… He can't… He feared…"

Jazz was at her side before she could speak another word, before she could form another thought. Just one moment he sat on the poker table. The next he was at her side, his hands cupping her face. "Look at me, Lydia. Calm down. Do you feel offlined? Do you feel fractured as though a part of you shattered? Ratchet is fine, cranky as ever. And you are not dead again. No spark shattering of a lost mate. Vent the air and listen to my voice. Easy now."

Her eyes snapped shut, fighting against the internal fear, the utter terror that, for a moment, she had believed she would never see her beloved again. She ignored the obvious, the fact that Jazz stood only an inch or two taller than her in this place, that his giant metal hands fit against her cheeks instead of swallowing her whole head in the action. It was more spatial distortion, more bending of reality as she knew it.

Still, her hands clung to his wrists, fighting against the tears that fell despite her best efforts and the self control that threatened to snap within herself. Ratchet was okay. That was all that mattered. She was not dead and her spark was whole. She latched onto that logical side of herself again, the warrior and officer she had once been, and dug in deep.

"That's a femme," he crooned softly. "I promise, you are fine. Your mate is fine. You think I'd encourage the two of you to find each other only to rip you apart again? Please, I wouldn't do that to my man Ratchet. I wouldn't do that to you, either."

She forced herself to nod once, trying to accept his words. "I thought that you all went to the Matrix when you died, uh, I mean offlined. I thought, for a minute anyway, that I'd died somehow and my spark brought me here."

"Well, you're half right, beautiful. Now come and sit down with me. We'll talk it through."

She only had to agree with him and then she was suddenly sitting on the table, legs dangling freely. Jazz sat beside her, back to his normal giant alien mode. For reasons she couldn't understand, she felt so comfortable with the mech, even if only having met him once in the heart of the Matrix, if that was indeed where they were. Comfortable enough to lean her head against his armor and kick her legs lightly. His arm came down, his massive hand closing around her upper half in the best imitation of a hug of comfort he could give.

"Why did my spark bring me here?" she asked at length, her voice somewhat back to normal.

"That part I don't really understand, myself," He admitted. "I do know that I recognize it, though."

Lydia wiped at her drying tears with the back of her hand. "Recognize it how?"

He hesitated for a moment, trying to find the right words. "It's not exactly a spark call, but it's close."

"You said that before and it still means nothing to me. I get the feeling that it should."

That time, Jazz did smile. "A spark call. It's how your spark and Ratchet's recognize each other. You're mated now, truly and utterly mated in the Cybertronian way. Your sparks are one, pulsing and living as one entity but separate at the same time. He'll always be able to find you, to know that you are online or when you are badly hurt. His spark will call to yours and yours will always answer. That goes both ways, you know. You'll always know if he's okay, if he's grievously hurting, or when he's calling for you as only a mate can."

She rubbed a hand over her chest absently, and smiled a bit as she felt a similar caress in return. "So that explains why when I touch my spark, it affects him?"

Jazz laughed, rocking his silvery chassis back and forth. "Oh, girl. I wish I could have been there in person to see him stumble like that, not just watching it through your memories. But yes, that is part of it. What you're forgetting is that part about your spark's being one, equal but different. When you do that," he gestured to where her hand still rested above her spark. "You aren't touching your spark. You're touching his. Which is why he was a walking ball of freak-out the day after your mating. Took him a while to adjust. My man shouldda hung back with you for a breem until you both adjusted to the feeling."

"That couldn't be helped," she muttered defensively, blushing slightly. "Things happened outside of our control. He was needed elsewhere. And I didn't know what I was doing until he told me about it."

Jazz's visor slid back, his cobalt optics glittering as he lifted an eyebrow ridge. "And that stopped you from doing it again, knowing a single touch would crash his feet out from under him?"

Her blush deepened, and his laugh grew. "No," she admitted, grinning to herself. "No, I guess I'm a bad mate. I kinda enjoyed that little bit of power over him. And I will do it again."

"That alone proves you two belong together," Jazz grinned widely. "You have more than a little bit of power over him, baby girl. You are his reason for standing for what he believes in, for fighting, for existing. It's a power unlike any in the universe. And yet it's a power shared by every living creature on the side of good, even a few on the other side two. You know the name of that power."

"Love?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Love," he answered, nodding. "But also trust and choice. It's more than the right to choose freedom that Optimus and the others fight for. But you'll learn that in time."

"Since when did you become the wise old mech?" she smirked, leaning back against him. "Weren't you some kind of thief?"

Jazz vented air in a fashion that sounded suspiciously like a cough. "Master thief, spy and saboteur, thank you very much. And if you spend enough time with the likes of Nova Prime and Prima, you'll pick up wisdom here and there."

They both chuckled a moment at that before lapsing into silence. Lydia closed her eyes, savoring the familiar and yet not-so-familiar feeling of his frame, listening to the hum of his systems. Safety and warmth flowed from him, and even to her one optic, his energy signature in the air was welcome and known. In fact, it was almost the same as hers; almost identical to the pattern she had seen emanating from herself in the med bay not a few hours ago. Her spark flared in little happy pulses of recognition, content to be near one of its own.

Her frown returned. "Jazz, why am I so comfortable with you? And how do I know so much about you? None of the others would speak about your life for very long. Your loss still affects them too greatly. So how do I know this stuff? And why am I not freaking the frag out about it?"

"I'd say it was your spark," he replied calmly, those optics staring down at her with gentleness. "If I didn't know any better, I would say we were kin. At least, had I still lived, we would have been kin."

"Kin, as in of the same clan?"

"Yeah," he replied after mulling it over a bit. "Yeah, that would be a decent explanation. But it's more than that. I'd call us siblings, honestly. Probably why I recognized your spark right off. Now that I think about it, it's probably why I was chosen for this meeting."

She blinked. And blinked again. And blinked a third time as that bit of knowledge worked its way into her brain. "You're my brother?"

"The term's spark brother. Yeah."

"Like Sides and Sunny?"

Again, he barked out a stream of laughter. "Primus, no," he grinned. "No, they are twins. More than sharing a mech and femme creator, they are a split spark. Myself, I was a shard spark, same as the one inside you. No one really knows—or knew, I mean—why the All-Spark spun out which spark and which clan it would belong. Only that a prospective parent presented a shell and hoped that Primus would grant them a sparkling in sync with their own sparks. Most of the time, that was the case. Other times…"

"Other times, what?" She prompted as he trailed off, feeling a wariness in her chest at the way his features became dark and brooding.

"Other times, the spark in the shell wasn't meant for that mech or femme. That spark had some other purpose, a… a destiny I think you humans call it," he explained. "It was a great honor to be given a sparkling like that in the old days. Those were normally raised by the temple guardians when they became younglings, serving a great purpose in protecting our culture and ways of life. And also protecting the All-Spark."

"And you were one of those?" She asked gently, placing a hand on his side.

He looked away a moment, optics dimming as if gazing across the sand could rewind time. "I don't know, honestly. I was sparked, and when I grew to youngling status, my parental units—the ones raising me—were killed. We were on another moon, some distance away from Cybertron. I had to learn to fend for myself. What I might have been," he shrugged again. "Who knows? What I do know was that I hooked up with Optimus at the start of the war and never looked back."

She clung to him then, and the tears flowed without her control. Somehow during his speaking, she had found that strange sorrow sweeping over her again, banishing the logical side of herself. And then something he had said before suddenly clicked in her mind. He had seen her interactions with Ratchet through her memories.

Could it be that the Autobot farewell of 'Til All Are One' wasn't just an alien good-bye? Here, in the heart of the Matrix, was she sharing in the memories of all that came before her, and they were sharing in hers?

Lydia took a deep breath, and like she had done with her own spark, she opened her mind and her memories.

"I wish we would have had more time to get to know one another," she murmured, voice thick with tears, awash in the memories of his childhood, seeing Cybertron and the All-Spark though him. "I wish you would have come to know your destiny."

He reached down, and again, maybe it was because she needed it or maybe it was just at trick of this strange place, but his hand was sized to suit her again. The pad of his thumb crossed her cheeks, wiping away her tears. "Uh-uh, baby girl. No cryin', now. And how do you know this isn't my destiny? To be here with you now and to help you find your way through your new life?"

She shook her head, looking away. "Just seems unfair to me. There should be something I could do. That anyone could do. It just… no offense, but it seems so bloody pointless you being here."

"Hey," he said gently, turning her face back to his. "Optimus once told me something and I held it in my spark all the days of my existence. He said 'fate rarely calls upon us at the hour of our choosing.' I firmly believe that even now. Had I been raised as a temple guardian, who was to say that I wouldn't have offlined millions of your years ago at the start of this war?"

She shrugged a shoulder, not really knowing what else to do or say to that. He was right. Even if it sucked so hard core to hear it.

"Well, if you're here to help me, then can you tell me what these dreams mean? Before I was here, I…" she flushed hotly, trying to push away the images that came to mind. Those That Came Before, and her newly found spark brother did not need to see…

Jazz whistled low, wiggling his eyebrow plates. "'Then teach me?' Seriously, you said that to him?" he laughed. "Gorgeous, you never say that to a mech. It's like saying 'spark me where I stand.' We've got to teach you some better use of your vocabulary."

Without thinking, she turned and punched him firmly in the side, taking a small bit of satisfaction at how he slid off the table with the force of her punch. Still, he was laughing as he hit the sand. "Not funny," she grumbled, though a touch of laughter edged the words. "And it's not nice to read someone else's thoughts, especially when she's doing her best to shield them. Ratchet taught me that. Quit being rude."

"What part of 'spy' did you not understand? Nothing's secret from me," he replied, climbing back onto the table. "And good work with that punch. Your spark's already beginning to access your frame. Keep working at it and you'll have one helluva right hook."

She stared down at her hand, then glanced back up at him. "I really hit you that hard? I thought you were just… you know, going with it."

Again, he shook his head. "No, baby girl. That was all you. You need to stop thinking about the spark as being separate from yourself. It's part of you. You are part of it. That's what the dreams were trying to tell you, I think."

"Tell me? What that spark did was turn us into a turbo-charged spark-machine," she exclaimed. "There wasn't any message in that."

"If that was true, why were you afraid to look at yourself?"

"Look at myself?"

Jazz vented air in slight frustration. "You aren't that dense, Lydia—and by the by, you better pick a name soon because Lydia no longer fits. You aren't that dense, and you know what I mean."

She shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. She knew, alright. Gazing down at her human form between the spark and herself, it had been frightening on so many levels. Her spark panged mournfully, sending its ready agreement with that statement. "How? How do I see it as a part of me when it has its own personality? It was really pissed at Jolt."

"Was it?" he challenged, "Or were you?"

"Of course I was pissed," she retorted hotly. "He made me sound like a bumbling idiot that couldn't comprehend her own brain. But I didn't want to challenge him over it."

Jazz sent her a look as if she should know better. "You mean to tell me that if Jolt had been a human saying those exact words, you wouldn't have wanted to slug him?"

She thought about that again, not quite ready to admit he was right. "Then why do I always see the spark in between us? Why do I see a Cybetronian, and why in that dream did I forget that I was human?"

"That, I think you are going to figure out on your own once you stop putting a barrier between what your spark knows and what your brain perceives."

"Oh, if that wasn't cryptic enough…" she crossed her arms over her chest.

Jazz smirked again. "Hey, I'm not here to give you all the answers, baby girl. I'm here to help you find them. Big difference."

The lightning storm above their heads pulsed suddenly, throwing lightning arcs dangerously close to them this time. Lydia jumped, unconsciously hiding behind him. She had almost forgotten about that massive ball of electricity suspended above their heads. It had been so quiet before…

Jazz merely looked up at it sadly. "I think your time here is over, my spark sister. Think on what I am telling you. And for Primus's sake, pick a name already. You're driving half the base crazy trying to figure out what to call you."

The lightning snapped closer, violently so, and Lydia drew her feet up on instinct. "I thought you said this wouldn't hurt me!"

"That's not coming from the Matrix. Pick a name, already."

"Why the hell are you on my ass for a name?" she exclaimed increduilously, looking for a place to hide and trying not to scream in frustration. Sand and one giant rickety table wasn't going to protect them from much. " If those arcs aren't coming from the Matrix, where are they coming from?"

"You need one. Why not pick it now?"

The wind stirred up, hurling sand and stone like a maelstrom, threatening to dislodge her from the table. She clung to Jazz, to his hand, as the lightning storm above pressed down. "Shit, Jazz! I don't know. Pick one for me!"

"You already have one. Use it."

She shook her head. "The only one I know is Phoenix. But Josh used to call me th—"

"To the Pit with Josh!" Jazz snarled above the howling wind. "That fleshbag no longer matters. It's your name. Use it. Keep it. It fits. You are Phoenix now. Phoenix, spark sister to Jazz."

There was a flash in her mind, the symbol of a Cybertronian glyph, and she knew deep inside that that was her new Cybertronian name. Her spark seized that glyph, twisting and absorbing it until it bore the shape of the glyph instead of that of a simple ball. And then the lightning became overwhelming, arcing in every direction, drowning out almost every sound and sensation and sight. "Jazz, one more question! What was your clan?"

He told her. The world was awash with pain and white light.


	37. Chapter 37 Revelation Part 2

A/N: Look, an update! LOL. I've been away a while and I wanted to apologize for that. Seems that I got myself into a large amount of trouble with my health lately. Apparently I have developed allergies to certain foods all of sudden and ended up in the hospital. I'm all better now, though I have to admit the trip to the ER and the subsequent stay has given me a wealth of information from which to draw from the next time I need to write a med bay/hospital stay. :P I suppose that's called turning a negative into a positive, right? Missing work on account of that stay has left me little time to write. But now that I am all caught up, I have found the time to write. Yay!

I wanted to thank everyone that has made this story a favorite, who has read, and who has taken the time to review. You all keep me going. I promise you that I read them all, and I take all the information into consideration when I write my chapters. I started writing this story for me, but it has become something more than just amusement for one person. I want to thank you all for making that possible. :)

I also want to take the moment to thank Razorgaze for her help in beta work. She is an amazing person to put up with my sporatic and crazy writing. She is also an amazing author, too. Check out her story "Our Debt." It's totally woth it.

As I promised, here are the next five chapters of music. Almost all caught up! :D

Chapter 31: Answers  
Conflict – The Azoic  
Absconding – Daughter Darling  
Dark Angel – VNV Nation

Chapter 32: Death  
I stand alone – Godsmack  
Love is a battlefield – Pat Benatar  
Sparrows and Nightingales – Wolfsheim  
Perfect Time of Day – Howie Day

Chapter 33: Shock  
Another world – Beborn Beton  
Breath – Breaking Benjamin  
Sinking Satellite – Tasmin Archer

Chapter 34: Anger  
Time of Dying – Three Days Grace  
Bend the Bracket – Chevelle  
Seasons - Sevendust

Chapter 35: Impressions  
Waiting for Love – Pink  
Paranoid – Garbage  
Skeleton Song - Sevendust

Disclaimer: I own nothing, not the songs or the characters listed in this fic, save for my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.

* * *

It seemed like the tears would go on forever. Ratchet hovered near his mate, his worry and agitation beating against her mental defenses like the unrelenting waves of the sea. She had no words for him to explain the pain, the wretched sorrow that had overwhelmed her being upon opening her eyes. Only tears, the silent fat spark-wrenching tears that flowed over her cheek was the only clarification she could offer.

She had reached for him silently, arms outward and imploring, and the mechs supporting him had to either let go or be drug along for the ride as he answered that request for comfort. His hands closed around her tiny mortal form, lifting her smoothly to that part of his chest armor that she had come to call her own. His spark burned beneath it, a steady reminder that the sorrow would pass, that love would exist to outshine the sadness. She had only to reach for him, reach through the bond they shared, to understand that.

His optics sought out those of his colleagues, and no other words were needed. One by one, they nodded and left – all except two. Wheeljack, who could not leave without his escort by orders of their Prime, and Jolt, who adamantly refused to leave his mentor's side in the face of what had just occurred. Red Alert grabbed the mech by the back of his neck plating, optics hard as he sent whatever private message to the obstinate apprentice he chose. In the end, whatever Red Alert had said, it worked. Under protest, but still agreeing to be moved, Jolt allowed himself to be escorted to another section of med bay.

Wheeljack followed his lead. He quietly collected his data pads and made his way to one of the other rooms in the labyrinth-like medical facility. But not before he shot one last, lingering look of worry over his shoulder at Ratchet and his human mate. He hesitated only a moment longer, words on the tip of his vocal processor. The image before him, of his human friend held gingerly against the spark of the mech he considered the closest thing to family he had left, was enough to still those words.

They needed to be alone. Yet like Jolt, he would be nearby, a medical scan going constantly in that room to make sure nothing else out of the ordinary occurred.

Too much had happened already, and none of it seemed to be going anywhere good. First Lydia had dropped off to sleep in record time, and not a moment later Ratchet's optics had dimmed, the Chief Medical Officer slipping into recharge right where he stood. There had been no explanation for either event, and certainly no logical reason why the sparks of both had frozen in unison for those long, frightening few moments.

Venting air in a sigh, he let the door seal behind him and took his place at a science station. The amount of information gathered in those few nano-kliks between where Lydia fell asleep to where Ratchet had nearly offlined, to where they both came to, had been more than surprising. For a moment, they had feared that they had lost them both.

For a moment, both of their sparks had ceased to function. And no one had one fragging good reason as to why.

That was what troubled him the most. Only the electrical charge from a fast-thinking Jolt had pulled Ratchet from his critical state, and the effect had apparently pulled Lydia from the brink of offlining as well. If there had been any question as to if their sparks had fully merged, there was none left after that little demonstration.

It was frustrating to say the least, all these little curveballs – as the humans would call them – being hurled at their processors at subspace speed. So much so that he found himself grinding his lip plates behind his mask. No matter what they seemed to do, they could not stay a step ahead of whatever this spark was doing to Lydia's systems. And Ratchet's existence now hung in that fragile balance, too.

It was no longer one life they were fighting to understand and save, but two. As it should be, he mused with more than a little touch of foreboding, between a truly mated pair. Because Ratchet was not the type to let go of anything, not until each and every option had been explored. He would not let go of Lydia's spark, not until it was extinguished, and even then he might choose to hold it still. That was beyond dangerous, as any mech knew. Holding onto half a bond was like… like nothing he could put into words. But, in the face of all the calamity and loss they had faced as a race in this abhorred war, it was not unheard of.

Wheeljack did not want to think of the consequences of that. And so he glanced at the door one last time, as if he could see his friends beyond the steel casements, and turned back to his work. There was a mystery before him, and the key to the happiness of two of his closest friends lay in the unraveling of it.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Ratchet held her in his palms, her body pressed against the armor above his spark. His optic guards closed, the blue within blue orbs dimming softly as he poured all his energy, all his being, into the emotions he pushed through their bond. Her sorrow dragged at his spark, aching and sapping the strength from his frame. The soul-deep agony of old emotional wounds tearing open and new ones forming at the same time was almost enough to drop him to his knees.

She was still too new to the bonding process, to having her own spark, to be able to shield what she felt, especially when the grief was all too raw and way too deep. Every bit of it lashed through him, tossing in snippets of memory like razor sharp shards of glass to cut him further. He saw a child-sized Lydia, holding onto the hands of her grandparents, staring at dual mahogany boxes. She had been too tiny to look inside on her own, to see the impassive and waxy faces of her parents.

Killed by a drunk driver, leaving behind a six year old Lydia and a thirteen year old David, her older brother. The first abandonment.

The memory flashed again, and now Lydia was fifteen years old, staring once more at twin mahogany coffins. Within lay her grandparents, dead within days of one another. Her grandfather had died of cancer, and her grandmother from the grief of loosing him. Beside her sat David, twenty-two years old and already married with a child on the way. Sorrow tainted his eyes, eyes that refused to look at his little sister.

Because he could barely take care of himself and his wife Corrine. There was simply no way he could care for his sister, too. A second and third abandonment.

The woman seated on the other side of Lydia was one Mrs. Alexandra Collins, the court appointed foster mother for his little sister. Her face had been impassive, too, cold and looking almost bored as the funeral continued. A look, he learned through her later memories, that never really faded from Mrs. Collins face. A cold woman, but not unkind. She had cared for Lydia's material needs, supplemented from the government checks as a foster mother. But there had been no connection, no warmth. A forth abandonment.

It was little surprise that Lydia had joined the Air Force the moment she had turned eighteen. It was even less surprise that the woman had gone into accounting in college. Everything had always been about a paycheck after her parents had died. Everything had been about money. Her parents life insurance money, the money to bury her grandparents, the lack of money from her brother to care for her, and finally the money paid by the government for her care. Money, and lack thereof, had been the guiding force in her young life.

The last straw had been when her brother had taken his own life after being laid off of his job. Leaving his wife and son, Trent, to fend for themselves. Corrine DeMarco had remarried less than a year after David's death, to a man with more money than sense.

A man in every way David's opposite. A fifth and sixth abandonment.

He stopped counting after that, stopped trying to understand the pain that lay hidden within his mate. He did not want to see the deaths of her wing-mates, Spiral and Eclipse, see the betrayal of Joshua Eddard in his denouncement of anything not human. He stopped trying to know, and instead transmitted everything he knew. The strength in her kindness, the way her lips made that sassy lopsided smile each time she was secretly amused. The endless depths of her love and courage.

"I will never abandon you, light of my spark," he whispered both aloud and through their bond. "Feel the pulse of my spark and know I speak truth. I will never abandon you. I love you."

"It's not fair," she sniffled, clinging to his chest plates as if they were the only thing that kept her from flying away into oblivion.

"It seldom is," he soothed. "We have all lost loved ones in the past."

She shook her head so hard she nearly lost her balance. "No, not that. Not the past. Well, yes, in the past, but also in my present. It's just not fair."

He tried not to frown. "I don't follow you."

"_Jazz_," she said, startling him with the intensity of her declaration. "Jazz should not have died like that. I lost him before I ever knew him, Ratchet. He's my brother and I never knew him. It's… it's worse than not fair. It's…"

She trailed off as the sobs took control once again. He sat in stunned silence, lost in the impact of her words. Jazz as her brother? It wasn't possible, and yet some part of his spark let it him know that it was. Something more had happened during that brief moment when both their sparks has ceased to pulse, something that he was not privy to.

Memory files unlocked and unfolded before his optics, replaying everything he could both before and after the unintentional spark-freeze. He had experienced a brief loss of system function and the vague impression of a dream. There had not been pain, but to the contrary there had been pleasure. The joy of holding his mate as if she were of his race, and the utter completeness of a spark merge. Even his spark told him that yes, they had merged again, but apparently something else had happened as well.

It had been a moment of unbelievable joy. But there had also been the tiniest sense of loss before he had come to. Looking back on it, he could acknowledge that that feeling was in connection to both his mate and to Jazz, yet… there was something more.

"Your… brother," he repeated carefully, not entirely sure if that was a question or a statement. "How do you know this?"

Lydia took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she sat back and tried to get a handle on her tears. "I talked to him in the Matrix."

This time it was he that lost his balance. He stumbled backward a step, sitting down hard on the opposite medical berth. "You… what?"

"This wasn't the first time," Lydia continued, wiped at her tears with the back of her hand. "I spoke with him when I was dead at the plane crash. I also spoke with Nova Prime and Prima and—"

She cut off as the medical scan hit her full force. She yelped, arms wrapping around herself instinctively, eyes slamming shut. He wasn't bothering to be nice this time around. That much was obvious by the way her skin felt as if it suddenly had a light sunburn. The scan was deep and thorough, the energy of it more than prickling across her body. She had to clamp her teeth down on her lips to keep from crying out.

"Impossible," he muttered. "Your scan reports that your systems are functioning within designated perimeters. There must be something wrong with the calibration of my sensors."

"No, you're fine," she managed out, taking several deep breaths to push the nausea away. To try and keep her grief from transforming into sudden anger. That had really hurt. "And next time you do that, I better be out due to some powerful drugs. That hurt. A lot."

"It was necessary," he replied, eyes dimming and voice soft as he ran internal scans upon himself. "I needed to know what part of you was malfunctioning, or if fragments of a memory routine had somehow transferred into you from my parts."

"What did your scans just tell you?"

He pinned her with a level look. "That both you and I are fine. Which means one of us isn't."

"Or it means that both you and I are fine," she stated firmly. "And that the problem might be a grumpy medic that refuses to accept the Occam's Razor."

He narrowed his optic guards at her. "Occam's Razor?"

She fought not to sigh. At least when fighting with him, she wasn't so horribly sad anymore. Improvement much? "Occam's Razor," She repeated. "It's a human principle meaning 'the simplest explanation is most likely the correct one."

It took him less than a second to find the principle online. _One should not increase, beyond what is necessary, the number of entities required to explain anything._ He had to agree with the logic behind it, even if he did not like where he thought his mate was taking this conversation. "And what would be the simplest explanation?" he asked carefully.

"That I'm telling you the truth," she said exasperatedly. "I was in the matrix with Jazz, and Nova and Prima." She thought she saw him wince when she said those last two names. "What, what's wrong with Nova Prime and Prima? Aside from the fact that I think they cheat at poker, that is."

He stared at his mate as if she had suddenly grown a second head. "Accusing those two of cheating at _anything_ is tantamount to treason," he warned. "And it is not possible that you have spoken with either of them. Occam's razor aside, I do not think this principle includes ideas that are outside of the realm of possibility—for either of our races."

The anger rose in her before she could stop it, an overbearing sense of outrage and… and hurt. Hurt that he did not believe her, that he thought she was either mistaken or pulling somehow from memories within him that she shouldn't be able to access.

"Hello, do you even remember who you are talking to?" she snapped, jabbing a finger at his chest plates. "Human with a _spark._ Human that _died _and came _back_. Human that is _MATED_ to you. I'm the freaking poster child for making the impossible into reality. And I'm not broken or lying to you, mate of my spark. I _DID_ speak with Jazz in the Matrix. He _IS_my sparkbrother. And whether you like it or not, I'm part of his clan by the will of the All-spark and the Matrix."

She could see the logical, reasonable mech that she knew and loved battling with the stack of illogical and impossible things she'd just slapped him upside the processor with. Deep inside, the spark that made him wasn't trying to be harsh, she knew. It was trying desperately to fuel the many processors assigned to the task of wrapping themselves around her statements.

After what seemed like forever, his optics brightened to their normal amazingly beautiful blue. "I am willing to entertain the notion that you believe what you are saying," he began carefully. "Understand Lydia—"

"My name is not Lydia," she practically growled out, crossing her arms over her chest to keep from reaching for whatever part of his armor she could grab and shaking him for all she was worth. "My name is Phoenix, and I'm aligned with the Autobots. My mate is Ratchet, and my clan before mating was Omega Lykaon. The same as Jazz. And we were both shard sparks at birth, destined to be servants of the All-spark and the race as a whole. Jazz is fulfilling that destiny right now. _In the matrix_. So don't you dare look at me like I'm crazy or like I'm accessing your memory cores. Because I bet you did not know that bit of information about him."

His optics spun, his processors accessing every bit of memory he had ever possessed… and found, unbelievably, that she was right. He had known about the Omega Lykaon clan. Indeed, Starflare had had many associations with that clan, though bots of such high station like Ratchet and Starflare had to be careful in acknowledging those connections at that time. Omega Lykaon was known to allow the most adoptees to their ranks, including Seekers no less, leading the clan to have a reputation for wild spontaneity and reckless abandon.

Some had even said that Starflare's femme creator had been of Omega Lykaon before she had mated, and passed along traits of that unusual clan to her offspring. It had certainly explained her odd coloring and outlandish ideas. Ideas that Ratchet had come to adore in their too-short courtship. Still, one could not deny that some of the greatest heroes in Cybertronian history hailed from Omega Lykaon.

Heroes like Jazz, himself. What he hadn't known about his fallen friend was the fact that he had been a shard sparkling.

The pain had not dulled in the millennia that had passed since Starflare had offlined, stabbing him anew and unexpectedly with a blast of memory. He had locked the thoughts of her away so long ago, the bit of memory allocated to her buried and unused… until Lydia's plane crashed and he found himself in a revelation of the spark that had nearly crippled him.

He had learned that day, that horribly tragic day, that he had finally fallen in love. It should not have surprised him in the slightest that he had fallen hard for a member of Omega Lykaon. Some part of him must have recognized that Lydia would end up of that clan. It was the only explanation as to why he had thought of Starflare the entire time he was rescuing Lydia.

Rescuing a femme that was wild and free and unbelievably beautiful… just as Starflare had been. Just as Jazz had been.

His processors navigated away from that sea of pain, pulling him forward to the present. Optics refocused, looking at the femme held in his hand, noting the crystalline trail of tears that fell across her right cheek from her human eye. Her optic only misted, and a detached part of himself—the part still in a state of shock from her revelations—latched onto that medical fact like a rock in the center of a maelstrom. This was something logical, something real… something that wasn't based on faith. It grounded in him in a sense, made reality seem all that more stable beneath his foot pads.

She would never cry tears from her optic, he remembered. He had had to rework the organic tear ducts to apply moisture to the optic core else the implant remain dry and chaff the surrounding tissue constantly. Her spark, itself, had seen to the rewiring of her neural net to divert such a waste of lubricant as tears to other necessary functions. Ratchet stared at those human tears, forcing his processors out of the stasis they had put themselves into.

"I never knew," Lydia was saying, both hands placed above his spark gently. "Her name was Starflare, and she meant so much to you. I… I can understand why you never talk of her. Feeling that pain, seeing what you saw happen to her…"

Her voice trailed off, choked by the sob that lodged in her throat, from the memories that flowed freely between them. Her head came forward, resting against her hands, and he felt her shoulders shaking in silent grief. That same grief flooded down the stream of their bond, slapping at his spark with wave after wave of fresh loss. Feeling that grief, that raw tearing sensation when Starflare had been forced offline was one thing, witnessing the desecration of her corpse was another. Both memories had been buried beneath layer after layer of duty, hidden behind the necessity of what he had to do to protect those he had left in this accursed war.

But feeling it, utterly feeling Starflare's loss as it was reflected back at him from the bond, and feeling the losses from his mate as well… it was too much.

Both hands wrapped around her, sheltering her against his chest, holding to her as if she were the only thing in the universe that kept him grounded to reality. And for the first time since the war began, he let himself truly grieve for Starflare…

And together they grieved anew for Jazz.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The rage would not leave him.

It circled his processors like a buzzing organic insect, just out of his visual range and always one second ahead of him when he tried to take a mental swipe at it. The conversation with that despicable Ratbat interrupted his concentration when he had tried to organize his precious reports, chased him down the hallways when he tried to escape even that. And always, like an unwanted companion, the image of Elayna Feugo fighting for her life against Barricade danced along in tandem with it.

It had left him only one place to go.

Prowl straightened to his full height, pulling the last of the grenade fragments from his leg plating. They were fake, of course, nothing more than bits of plastic with an industrial adhesive slathered across them to mimic the impact and damage of a real high velocity scatter grenade. His systems had dutifully shut down that portion of his frame after the device struck him, rendering that limb useless and his transform sequence equally as inoperable.

Still, he had battled his way through the obstacle course simulations, ignoring the warning signals flying across his vision as the program Wheeljack had designed overtook his normal protocols. He was wounded, it had told him, severely disabled from multiple blasts that penetrated his armor, his systems unable to take the strain much longer. Those were pushed to the back of his processors, and, snarling, he defeated his final opponent before his spark gave out at last.

His simulated spark, at any rate.

The humans monitoring his progress stared at the second-in-command with a kind of muted horror. Never before had they witnessed such outright abandon from the normally reserved and cautious bot. It was not to say that they hadn't witnessed equally as amazing acts from other Autobots like Ironhide for instance. But never from Prowl. And they certainly had not seen that level of destructive firepower from the logical bot before.

No one questioned him as his systems came back online not a nano-klik after he had fallen, the simulation program in his processors deactivating and tucking itself into the holding queue for later use. Most of them watched in a shocked kind of state as Prowl wordlessly knelt to remove the combat debris from his armor.

Most of them… but not all.

Maggie strode across the mock-battlefield, though the word "strode" was more of an understatement. She more stomped than strode, the look in her eyes enough to have most of the soldiers present moving quickly out of her way. Only one bothered to stop her, but even then it was only for a moment as he confirmed that the simulation was shut down and no active weapons were present on the field. Top Military clearance as an attaché to Director Keller or not, no one was about to let her walk into an area where armor—for both Autobots and humans—was necessary.

The wait somewhat destroyed her grand and annoyed entrance as Prowl flicked a glance in her direction as he continued to clean his armor. Still, she managed to build up to a rather impressive rage by the time she stomped over to him.

"You want to tell me what that was all about?"

He lifted his optic guards slightly, regarding her a moment before he turned back to his work. "I was scheduled for simulation practice."

"Practice for what? Scaring the hell out of everyone around you and then blowing yourself up? If that was the case, then bravo. You accomplished that rather well."

The look he gave her wasn't entire friendly. "While I appreciate the feelings of those around me, this is a war. It is not always polite and civilized, and unlike your race, there are no 'rules of engagement' between Autobot and Decepticon. When we fight, it is to extinguish the other's spark. There is no other way."

"That wasn't what you were doing out there, and you know it," she replied levelly, her hands balled into fists and those fists planted on her slender hips. "And if you think you can just ignore me—which I know is what's going through those processors of yours right this instant—you're wrong. You are my friend, Prowl, and friends watch out for each other. Especially when they are doing something really stupid."

He picked the last of the debris from his armor, straightening to his full height. "Please see my previous comment on scheduled practice," he replied, stepping over her. "If you require further discourse with me, it will have to wait. I need the attentions of the wash racks before this adhesive destroys my paint."

"You can't ignore me, Prowl."

"I was not planning to," he tossed back, without bothering to turn around. "Again, after I see to the wash racks—"

"Then we can take the record of your run through the simulation to Ironhide and Optimus together," she finished with mock-cheer, taking a small measure of satisfaction at the way his wing doors stiffened sharply. "I'm certain they both would _love_ to discuss your brand new 'simulation techniques' at great length."

He was trapped and he knew it. The need to spin out a thousand different scenarios on how to escape this situation was useless. Somehow he should have known that, while he had disabled the recording devices himself when entering the simulation—a trick he had learned from Skids and Mudflap after their last attempt to replace the adhesive in the grenades with a substance the humans called confetti—someone would have managed to record at least a portion of it. As he glanced back at his human friend, he realized she had not only recorded a portion of it, but most likely _ALL _of it.

He was trapped. And that fact did nothing for his rising temper.

"The alternative?" he growled, turning to face her, eyes flickering with a touch of crimson.

"Go wash up," Maggie replied, waving a hand in the direction of the wash racks. Still, her voice softened slightly. "And meet me on the northern beach. We'll talk about it then."

The nod he gave was curt and barely visible. Yet he knew he had no choice but to swallow his rage and agree to her terms. Once he stepped off that course, however, the buzzing anger returned, bringing with it the images of the human woman and all the hell she must have endured at the hands of her Decepticon captors.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Just five more steps, he told himself as the world spun hellishly out of control. Five more tiny, insignificant steps and he could rest.

Nausea twisted his gut, wrapping his body in wave after wave of agony. Not that he could feel much of it anymore, he noted with a sick sense of amusement. Already his flesh was becoming cold, numb, the sensations of his feet beneath his legs almost nonexistent. He was more than likely bleeding to death and he knew it. But there was nothing for him to do about it now, not when he had this one last important mission to complete.

His left leg gave out for a moment, and he slammed against the far wall, spitting blood as he clawed at the smooth texture, trying to keep his balance. He knew that if he let himself fall, he would never get up again. He had to keep moving. He had to complete his mission.

Or others were going to die.

The pain was incredible, eating at his consciousness and dragging his mind further and further into darkness. He soldiered on, putting one foot in front of the other. He'd lost his way twice already, the keen intellect that he had so prided himself on slipping away drop by drop as his blood continued to flow. Still, he pushed forward, seeking anyone that would help.

The hallways were deserted, empty as the night shift had taken over. No one would bother checking the brig for a while now, he thought bitterly. After the last changing of the guards, why would anyone stop in to check on things? After all, they were used to Prowl making his unannounced visits at least twice during the night. The extra manpower was diverted elsewhere, the extra money likewise tossed to another pile for budget concerns.

He made a promise to himself that, should he survive this, he would put in for the right to be the next budget liaison to this freaking base. He had more than paid for the right in his past service to his country, and now with the very blood of his body.

Just four more steps. Four more steps and he could rest.

Whimpers left him, his shattered jaw competing with his broken nose for which part of his head hurt the most. It prevented him from calling out, from reaching for a comm. switch and getting the help he needed. But then again, that was why _they_ did it. _They _needed the extra time to escape. And the moment _they _realized that he would not help them, that he would not betray his own kind or his country, they had turned on him in the most brutal way possible.

Though he should have seen it coming, the way the little Decepticon had seductively spoken to them, the little hints dropped when it argued with Prowl. It was up to something, and that something was going to be very bad. He had learned the hard way over many years that nothing connected with the All-Spark or the Decepticons had a way of coming out good. Hence his utter objections to the Autobots as well. They were connected whether or not they liked to admit it.

It was only a matter of time before they turned on the human race as well. But now was not the time for that bit of political debate. Now… now he needed to warn them.

Just three more steps. Three more and then rest.

The wound in his chest made a horrible sucking, gurgling sound with each breath he took. Though it was a relatively light wound compared to what the others had sustained. The medic called Jolt had taken the first blast, innocently coming to repair the prisoner per a request that had been filed. He never saw the injection needle until it had pierced his outstretched hand.

And, oh god, the screaming. He had never heard screaming like that in his entire life. Not in the war, and certainly not when interrogating any life form that had come across Sector Seven. He had clapped his hands over his ears to blot it out, and even his fellow human prisoner had gone white-faced at what they had seen. It felt like forever that the mech screamed and twitched… and finally lay still.

Jolt's optics were still flickering off and on as the putrid little creature leapt on him, sucking energon from his lines and ripping off bits of metal here and there to repair itself. At that point, he had leaned forward and vomited. The reek in the air let him know that his fellow human prisoner had done the same. But that didn't stop the other man from jumping on to the Decepticon's offer.

Which was why he had to get to Prime right away. He had to know. So many lives were now in danger.

Just two more steps. Two and then rest.

They had finally finished beating him nearly to death when the other mech walked into the room. Kup was his name, if memory served, and Kup had tried to do the smart thing. He had tried to signal others to help, but the jamming device within the little Con had activated again. And by the time he had gotten his wits about him, it was too late. The human accomplice had angled himself in such a way that Kup could not move without harming him. The Autobot had no way of knowing that the human in question—the one he was trying to protect—was in league with the Con.

Captain Joshua Eddard, former hero in the war against the Decepticons, had joined up with the enemy… all for the promise of having Lydia back in his arms.

Just one more step. One more and …

The doors to Optimus Prime's office parted, and the occupants of the room turned in unison to watch Tom Banachek tumble to the floor. But not before he managed to get out three hardly understandable words:

"Ratbat. Escape. Help."

And the world went black.


	38. Chapter 38 Revelation Part 3

A/N: This is going to be my standard opening for a while. The pain is still too close. I want to apologize for the long wait on some of my stories. I recently lost a good friend of mine and fellow fanfic writer and the loss was much harder than I anticipated. It really stunted whatever creative power I had and left me in a state of much sorrow. It's hard to realize just how much people influence our lives and our passions until they are no longer there. For the next while all my stories are going to be dedicated to her.

**AJ. I will miss you. I will miss you and your laughing encouragement more than I can ever say. This one is for you.**

Special thanks to **Razorgaze** as my Beta, and **Hummergrey** for her constant friendship during this sad time. You both render me speechless with your skills, friendship and dedication. Please check out their fics. The links are in my profile page. **And thank you to everyone that has sent me private messages or positive thoughts in the reviews. Those help so much. I can't thank you enough**.

I wanted to give an extra hug to **Hummergrey** for telling me to stop overanalyzing this chapter and post it already. I have agonized over it for nearly a month. So I deeply apologize if this one isn't as good as the others. I suppose I am still shaken up.

As promised, here is the last of the music:

Chapter 36: Dreams  
Cosmic Love – Florence + the Machine  
Surrender – Evanescence  
Is your Love Strong Enough – Bryan Ferry  
Believe - Staind

Chapter 37: Revelations Part 2  
Tonight and the Rest of my Life – Nina Gordon  
Cold (But I'm still here) – Evans Blue  
Ignorance – Paramore  
Again – Flyleaf

**Chapter 38: Revelations Part 3**  
**No More Lies – Krypteria**  
**Not Meant to Be – Theory of a Deadman**  
**9 Crimes (Cover) – Katherine Crowe**  
**Time after Time (Cover) – Quietdrive**  
**So Far Away – Staind**

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OC's. I am not making any money from this. Please do not sue.

* * *

This was going to haunt his conscience for years to come.

Major William Lennox stood in the gloom of the conference room on top of the massive table, staring at the images flashing across the wall screen. The throbbing ache was back in his shoulders, one of the lingering remnants of the near fatal blow that Ratbat had dealt him more than a month before. It seemed that that ache was his new constant companion, appearing when his stress levels heightened or when he had pushed the limits of physical exertion. It also served as a reminder than the 'Con's would seriously stop at nothing – would use any one and any thing – in their desire to advance their own nefarious goals.

Not that he needed a reminder of that, and especially not with the images being displayed across the gigantic wall screen.

Ironhide and Optimus flanked him on either side, silent shadows made of immovable metal. Outwardly, Will displayed the same amount of cool detachment, a soldier's façade that hid the turmoil that boiled beneath the surface. Only the slight frown line between his eyebrows and the way he unconsciously rolled his shoulders, trying to break up the thick scar tissue that covered his back, gave away his doubts. The questions chased around and around in the back of his brain. Should he have ordered extra precautions, sent the human prisoners to a different containment grid? Maybe moved them off base altogether? Or should he have taken a page from Galloway's playbook just this once and pressed Optimus to follow Ironhide's advice, deactivating Ratbat immediately and thereby removing the threat automatically?

The moment he entertained that option, he knew it was out of the question. The three of them – Ironhide, Optimus and himself – represented a unified and dedicated front for freedom. Killing their prisoners without a fair and impartial trial would have made them just as bad as those they fought against. Galloway and his ilk, in their narrow-minded fear, couldn't see that distinction. Will could. And he had learned at a young and tender age not to let fear make me cross any defined line in the proverbial sand.

So he stood there and watched the horror of the security footage as it replayed on the screen. Much to his dismay, it added more questions than gave answers.

"Stop there!" Lennox ordered, the word lancing through the thick silence, causing a few to jump in spite of themselves. Obediently, the tech froze the image on the screen, and inwardly the Major wasn't sure if ordering the playback to pause was any better than watching the event unfold in its entirety.

Jolt's deep blue armored frame arched on the brig floor, spinal structure bowing upward, his face plates frozen in an expression of what Lennox would have called mortal agony as Ratbat's talon gripped deep in his armor. Only the grey of his offlined optics provided any comfort. Banachek was on the ground in that frozen moment of hell, one arm clearly broken in several places and cradled to his chest, disbelief in his eyes. Blood on his fists and face evidence enough of the fight he had tried to defend against and ultimately lost.

Behind him, Kup's lighter blue form faced away from the angle of the security camera, the smoking hole in his front armor hidden from view. 'A small relief his spark was missed. Though, relief is a matter of perspective,' he noted, watching as Ironhide advanced towards the gigantic wall screen. One figure caused the burning hate in his blue optics. For over all three fallen sentients loomed the blood-streaked face of their own traitor, his human lips pulled back in a snarl of madness and delight.

"Betrayed," Ironhide growled, the word barely audible.

Just that one word, vocalized in that one tone, had humans and mechs backing away from the weapon specialist. Lennox couldn't blame them. He trusted Ironhide with his life and that of his men, even guarding his only child, and yet he still feared what the black mech was capable of doing if he ever truly let loose. Judging from the look on the faces of the mechs that had moved, they knew all too well.

"He'll pay. When we catch him," Epps put in, the only one moving towards the silently raging mech instead of away. He set his feet in a wide stance, arms crossed against his chest. Somehow, in that moment the Tech Sergeant seemed as tall as his counterpart, the determination emanating off them both superseded the mere physical stature of either.

"We'll get them both," Ironhide corrected, the words more snarled than spoken. "Traitor and Decepticon alike."

Will cast a quick glance to his left, watching the one person he was most concerned about in that room.

The woman formerly known as Lydia DeMarco, ex-Budget Liaison to the NEST Project, stood ramrod straight in the muted lights of the conference room. He knew she saw the same things they all saw, and yet unlike the rest of those present, not a flicker of emotion crossed her once expressive face. He would have liked to say that she bore a mask of stolid indifference like the rest of them.

He knew better.

He had her own words confirming that she _had_ been intimate with Captain Joshua Eddard on the replayed call with Arcee all those months ago. She had served with Eddard for nearly a decade, relying on and trusting him with her very life. If that had been his former commanding officer on that screen, turning traitor to the one cause that was above all their lives combined, he would have evidenced a lot more of what he was feeling than a blank mask.

What unnerved him the most was his certainty it _wasn't_ a mask she wore. He had the feeling that the woman didn't feel anything one way or the other.

~*~

Phoenix stared at the screen, trying to understand the man that was single-handedly betraying everything she held dear. He could have been a complete stranger for her current lack of personal attachment. Every time even an iota of recognition started, it was quickly countered by the spark that shared her body. Much like in the hallway only a day ago when her spark had lashed out at Joshua, she felt absolutely nothing for the man.

It wasn't that she or her spark felt nothing for the situation, however. On the contrary, the little ball of alien energy felt too much, heating the inside of her chest to almost painful levels. It was impossible not to feel anything but rage staring at the horrific image of her fallen companions. But when it came to the source of that rage, himself, her spark outright rejected the right to feel anything but hate.

Nights of laughter on the deck of aircraft carriers, flying into the thick of combat zones, and days of arguing over mission objectives… even their secluded moments when their love for each other was just blossoming… Any emotions they may have caused her were washed away by the image of the man that stood on that screen, gloating over the fallen Autobots.

The notion was frightening in and of itself. She should have felt shock at the very least. Watching a former friend betray everything should have initiated at least a bit of a shocky reaction.

But shock would have come with the usual symptoms, she rationalized. Her heart would have been racing, her ears filled only with the pounding of blood through her veins. Her vision would have wavered, blurred and lost any semblance of focus instead of the near super-human crispness she now experienced. And just when her nervous system swore it could not take anymore, utter numbness would have followed in its wake.

But her artificial heart no longer beat, and her spark objected vehemently to the idea of pulsing so much as a joule-second of energy out of sync with her mate's. Now that the two of them—her human frame and her Cybertronian spark—had stared at each other across the dreamscape of the matrix, they could no longer claim ignorance of each other's thoughts or sharing the same body. It was a revelation that she was afraid of, and with good reason.

Because in moments like this, moments when her physical form reacted with this "shock" thing, the spark could no longer sit by idly. Overrides were issued, the mechanical heart told to accept commands from the spark only, not her illogical organic brain. The device held a steady rhythm, the lungs and all associated systems necessary for life function following suit. Vision sharpened to the point of painful acuity instead of dulling, the brain ordered to record every bit of sensory data instead of turning it off.

And for the love of the All-spark, this notion of turning one's self off simply because one did not want to face reality was idiotic at worst and suicidal at best. How would one defend herself if one fell over or went numb? The logical course of action was to process all information, spin out possible ways to fix the situation, and then implement them. If none of the above was available, then removing the item causing the confusion was the next best step.

Going into shock? No. It was out of the question. Just as it was out of the question to feel anything but loathing for Josh.

"He chose to become this," she whispered aloud, echoing not only her thoughts but the feelings racing within her from her spark. It was logic she could not deny, and still it frightened her.

Frightened her from the venom her spark spat within her mind each and every time she called up what she considered a good memory of Josh. The spark wanted none of it, burning hotter and hotter each time she attempted to override the feelings. Sweat broke out across her forehead, her left hand rising to cover the X shaped scar and the spark resting beneath it. Her vision dimmed slightly, tinged with red as her spark objected once again to being covered.

To being denied its right to scream for spilled energon and blood alike to avenge her fallen companions.

Phoenix spun away from the screen, her free hand clamping over her optic, terrified that it now glowed an angry red instead of a calm jade green. Her jumbled thoughts raced down the bond with her mate at lightning speeds, seeking his location… And smacked head-first into a flimsy and opaque barrier. It took less than a second for her to realize that he wasn't blocking her on purpose, per se. He had taken up the mantle of CMO and had focused all his attention and then some on saving sparks.

She could almost feel his hands transforming from tool to tool at speeds faster than any human eye could detect. Red Alert and Wheeljack were a comforting presence in the back of his processors, calling out repairs one step ahead of the formidable medic. One step ahead of system after system that crashed as soon as it came back online in their friend. Jolt's frame bucked here and there against the restraints, twisted as he came back to life and drifted into stasis just as quickly.

Whatever it was that Ratbat had injected into the mech was still wreaking havoc on his systems. All her beloved's concentration was focused on saving Jolt.

Kup, she noted in a brief touch of his memories, lay in recharge on a nearby medical berth. Jolt had taken the worst of the attack, parts ripped from his core systems without thought or care to his survival. Kup was collateral damage, shot with Jolt's own weapons in Ratbat's hands. Nannites initiated under self-repair almost instantly after the shot was fired, saving the mech's spark.

In the face of such horror, her spark dialed back the anger. The last thing she wanted was to disrupt her mate at this critical time, especially with something as petty as an internal squabble. Phoenix closed her eyes, focusing inward until she found the image of her Cybertronian self. _We're going to have words later, you and I_, she told it. _This dominance shit has to end and quickly. But not now. Not until we know our friends are okay, got it?_

The image made a gesture that she instinctively knew was a bow of sorts. The image of a glyph flashed before her optic for the briefest of moments, the words that weren't words echoing in her ears. _Challenge accepted…_

And then there was silence within her. Blessed, beloved silence. It used to bother her that when she closed her eyes and shut out the world, she no longer could hear her own heartbeat. But in that moment, the silence was beyond amazing. She ghosted the barest touch of love across the opaque barrier, hiding her own concern over the sudden vocalization of her spark, and leaving him to his work.

The same touch whispered across her spark not a second later, spilling reassurance and love… and surprisingly enough, thanks that she would give him comfort in this intense moment when he fought to save a life. It was as if her love tempered the sorrow in him, renewed the hope in his spark. He stood a bit stronger, hands moving faster still, energized and determined not to loose another friend. Strength flowed from that thanks, love so amazingly strong that it threatened to bring her to her knees from just the barest touch of it.

_I love you, Grumpy. You have no idea how much…_

Phoenix took a deep breath and lowered her hands, only to find herself optic to optic with Optimus Prime.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It always came back to moments like this, Prowl reflected.

He stepped carefully onto the secluded bit of beach that the humans femmes preferred for their "sun bathing." During normal sunlight cycles, any number of the femmes could be found laying out on brightly colored towels and wearing tiny bits of covering called bikinis and 'swim suits,' covered in synthetic oils to protect their fragile skins from the worst of the ultraviolet rays of the sun and congregated around insulated boxes they referred to as coolers. Arcee and Chormia were also known to visit this stretch of sand on occasion, choosing to recharge with solar energy from time to time. The Cybertronian femmes had even taken to calling the time 'girl time' in the tradition of their human hosts.

Prowl had no idea what 'girl time' was, however his logic processors did note that no male of either species appeared particularly inclined to visit this stretch of the lagoon during said 'girl time.' It was an enigma that he pondered in his less frantic moments.

Tonight was not one of those moments. Tonight, to quote his counterpart Tech Sergeant Epps, had bad feelings written all over it.

As if to agree with his mental meanderings, the clouds chose that moment to cross the moon and bathe the world in blackness. Night vision kicked on automatically, his programming initiating deep and longer ranged scans to compensate. The images relayed to his processors let him know that all was in its proper biological place and functionality, from the slowly approaching form of Maggie in the near distance to the sharks deep in their mating cycles not two miles off the coast. He filed a report on that, flagging the information as critical for the next day's proposed open-ocean training exercises, and turned his attention to his approaching friend.

All the while trying not to let his annoyance grow, trying not to let the influx of organic information sink his spark deeper into depression. It had never occurred to him before to yearn still for a world that was no longer his. Vorns upon vorns had passed until he hardly thought of Cybertron at all. But there it was, displayed all around him in the crashing waves of water, the open expanse of sky, in the minuscule crushed organic exoskeletons that made up the "beach" beneath his footpads.

No matter where he turned, he could not escape the knowledge that this place was not home, and probably never would be for him.

"So you going to tell me what the hell's got you all torqued?" Maggie asked softly, her tone belying the harsh words.

Prowl jerked slightly, startled by the tiny hand she placed on his lower leg plating, by the fact that he had not tracked her approach. She had literally snuck up on him while his mind and spark had wandered to Cybertron in a fit of self-pity. His wing-door stiffened, his processors grabbing those self-depreciating thoughts and banishing them to the farthest parts of his memory cores. Embarrassment had his cooling fans kicking in, and that only furthered the discontent mewling around inside his spark. What if such a… lack of attention had happened during a critical moment of battle? Nothing good, that was for certain. Just to be safe, he initiated internal scans, searching for whatever it was that caused his lapse in attention. Self-scans replied that all was well, and still he did not believe it.

"I am fine," He replied, vocals clipped and precise, as he dually filed a request for medical review with Ratchet. "A momentary lapse in logic, pay it no mind."

Maggie snorted, not even bothering to be ladylike about it. "I call bullshit."

"My scans do not detect any animal of the bovine species, nevertheless fecal matter of such in our vicinity."

That earned him a bit of a laugh and a sardonic smile. "Nice try, but you are not going to logic your way out of this one, my friend. Seriously, I'm worried to death about you. You aren't acting like yourself and I want to know why."

His wing doors rose a bit higher, his shoulders straightening with the insult. "If you are concerned with my performance, perhaps you should be speaking with—"

The smile faded, and so did most of the warmth in her voice. "Don't give me that, Prowl. You know very well what I'm talking about and it has nothing to do with your performance as Autobot Second-in-Command. It's these sudden flashes of temper, the distracted reactions, and bouts of violence. Something is eating at you and it's eating at you good. You need to talk about it before you explode."

It was his turn to smile sardonically. "I am not human, Maggie. My central processing core will not overheat or 'explode' if I do not express myself."

"Tell that to what is left of Ironhide's obstacle course," she countered, crossing her arms over her chest. "And don't worry about the damage, by the way. I called in a few favors. He won't know anything untoward happened during your practice session unless you say something."

His shoulders slumped a bit, and the heat of shame replaced the embarrassment and wounded pride. Maggie almost sighed with relief at the sight. Finally, somehow, she was getting through to him. Somehow, she had managed to chip her way through the icy logical armor the male wrapped himself in and touched on his true emotions. At least, she hoped she had. Sitting on the soft, sun-kissed sand, she patted the space next to her, smiling again as he accepted the invitation and folded himself into a sitting position. Silence enveloped them a long moment as they both stared out at the night-darkened water.

"What are you processing in this exact moment?" she asked softly.

"Several things," he replied just as softly.

"Such as?"

"Processing corrective routes for the naval exercises in regards tomorrow's training in order to avoid shark spawning areas. Uploading the latest reports from the night's guard shift. Running probabilities on the next possible strike points for a Decepticon attack. And noting the similarity to the color of the waters at the moment to the way your eyes darken when you are angry."

That last bit caught her off guard, and she flicked a glance up at him. "Seriously?"

He nodded, optics still scanning off in the distance. "Your organic eyes change color dependant on your mood. I find that disturbing and envious in equal parts."

"Why disturbing?"

"It is alien to my kind. Our optics do not change color dependant on emotions."

She tipped her head to the side. "But yours grew reddish in color when you were on the obstacle course."

"That is not a color change for the reasons you process. It is a warning, an indication that systems have activated and safety protocols ignored based on illogical data and improbable scenarios plotted with assumed reaction to impending movements."

Maggie's face scrunched up in a bit of a frown. "So what you're telling me," she began slowly. "Is that when your optics go red, it's like a red warning light that systems are overloaded or overridden."

Prowl nodded again. "Our optics change only to that red color, as you put it. They do not change in degrees by other emotions like yours do. Yours lighten when you laugh, or brighten when you have found something of interest. Ours do not change. Color pigmentation is not necessary to display our intentions. Hence, to see it, is slightly disturbing."

She couldn't help the bit of pride and appreciation that swept through her at his words, knowing that he meant them in a purely scientific way and yet accepting the compliment all the same. "What of the Decepticons? Are you saying they have overridden their safety protocols constantly? Or maybe removed them altogether?"

The way he shifted, the way his face closed down emotionally, had her regretting her choice of words. Inwardly, she cursed herself. _Way to go Maggs_, she cursed herself beneath her breath. _You know what he's been through. He's all but confirmed it with bright neon lights. And there you go letting your mouth shoot before your brain has loaded the right words. _

"I'm sorry," she whispered, resting her hand on his foot plate. "I'm prying and I shouldn't. It's that part of me that feels comfortable with you that lets me just say whatever comes to mind. That's cost me more friends – and jobs – than I can count. Look, if you say you are okay, then I'll believe you. Just know that if you need someone to talk to, you can turn to me."

He watched her rise, turning to head back to the base, and for reasons he couldn't quite understand, he did not want her to leave. It was illogical, and utterly dumbfounding, but as much as he did not want to answer any of her questions, he did not want her to stop asking, either. His memory core drug up the image of Ratchet standing alone on that runway a month and more ago, staring at a pre-dawn sky in the direction of his love. It also called to mind the way Ratchet had found a sort of peace in the brief conversation with Arcee and himself.

It also reminded him, quite bluntly, of the night he had acknowledged this human as his friend. Moments like this, he realized, as frustrating as they were, somehow made the most impact on his spark.

"You didn't ask me why I was envious."

Maggie glanced over her shoulder, halting in her trek up the beach. "Huh?"

Prowl turned to face her. "You did not ask my why I was envious that your organic eyes can change color according to your mood."

She turned as well, taking a few steps back. "Why are you envious? I can't imagine any of you Autobots being envious of anything we humans possess."

He looked down, and finding no inspirations in the sand around him, returned his gaze to the sea. To the unending swirling of color and water and organic life. "It is because they fit you, Maggie. They fit you and you fit this world, with its constant shifting of life and colors and its frantic pace."

And now they get to it, she realized. The heart of the matter had finally come out. "You're homesick," she whispered, sitting next to him again and leaning against him this time.

He twisted the word over and over in his processors before nodding. "Yes. You can call it such. But I am not yearning for a world that exists among the stars. I yearn for a world that is no more, for bridges and lights and metals that no longer exist. You ask me why I am so 'torqued' as you put it. It is because my world is gone, and even though this is not my world, I cannot stand the thought of its destruction, either. No one should have to face the knowledge that their home is gone forever. Not you, nor I, nor Elayna."

And suddenly it clicked.

"The cop," she murmured aloud, staring at him with wide eyes. "God, Prowl, I am so sorry. I call myself your friend and I miss something like this. She's… she's like the human version of you, isn't she? She's been kidnapped and implanted and hurt and forced into a war she didn't want to be part of in the first place. You see yourself in Detective Elayna Feugo."

His lip plates firmed into a line so tight she feared he had pressured them into one solid piece. "Yes," he gritted out, again uncertain if he was pleased or disturbed that this human could read him so well. "But unlike me, she _has_ a home and a world to return to. I need to make sure that happens."

"You mean _we_ need to make sure that happens."

He regarded her a moment as she bounced to her feet, brushing the sand from her clothing. "I mean no disrespect, Maggie, however Master Sergeant Epps and I have gone over the available data many times. There isn't enough known information to pinpoint a search area, nevertheless a plan of attack."

The unspoken _so what do you think you can do that we can't or haven't already tried_ hung between them in the air. Maggie cheerfully ignored it, having long ago accepted the fact that some men – even Cybertronian males – tended to overlook the obvious.

"Prowl, there are two human phrases that I'm going to have to introduce you to. The first being that home is where you hang your hat."

"And the second?"

This time, she smiled. "That sometimes it takes a fresh pair of eyes to gain new perspective on a situation."

He glanced back at the ebbing tide just as the clouds disembarked from their covering of the moon, again changing the landscape and the way he viewed it. Maybe it was the trick of shifting from night vision to the normal light spectrum, or maybe there was some truth in Maggie's last statement. But for whatever reason, Earth didn't seem so foreign to him in that moment.

And again, for whatever reason, his spark didn't feel so heavy.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Phoenix had never been so close to an Autobot before, save for her mate. Part of her wanted to be alarmed, frightened even, of the metal behemoth staring at her with such calm intensity. It would have been the logical thing to do, and she doubted very much that he would hold it against her if she backed up a few steps. However, this was _Optimus_. This was her _Prime_, her leader, and the energy patterns that swirled around him were as familiar to her as the embrace of a friend.

Perhaps even more so, she mused, returning his unblinking stare. The warmth that enveloped her was more than familiar or comforting. It felt like that first moment when jumping into bed on a cold winter night, settling between the soft downy comforter and sheets, feeling every inch of tense concern melting away. It felt like walking into the coolness of the house after the summer heat had burned the energy right out of your flesh.

Refreshing and comforting, and perhaps a bit like being safe at home. Trusting, even.

It was odd that she had never noticed such sensations before. Of course, he had always inspired her with his presence, much as he did to all the members of NEST. But then she had been a simple human. She had not held a spark in her frame, and certainly had not had an optic in her head that could see that swirling, engulfing energy, either. She had not held the pieces necessary to understand that what made him Prime went far beyond magnificent charisma or strength. Now that she did…

Now, she just wanted to cry. Shame washed across her, shame for something she couldn't pinpoint or even begin to understand.

He tipped his head to the side, blinking his optic guards once. Phoenix dropped her gaze, one hand rising again to cover her spark and to cover her optic… and that was when she felt it. It was more than a knock on the inside of her skull, more than the buzz she normally felt when other Cybertronians were deep in conversation on private channels. It was an entreaty, an asking of permission for… for something.

She closed her eyes once more, taking that feeling and transforming it to the sound of a knocking hand within her mind, and then envisioned herself opening a door—

_You should never be ashamed of who you are_, Optimus's said, his voice nearly overwhelming her senses.

She jumped slightly. His voice echoed from all around, filling her tiny body from toe to fingertip with his very presence. It was so different than her conversations with Ratchet, or from listening in on an open channel that any Cybertronian could access. Ratchet's communications came from the center of her spark. Open comm. lines felt like listening to a loud speaker. This… this private communication was just everywhere inside her.

Optimus frowned, optics spinning as they narrowed in on her face. _You have opened yourself completely to my command, Phoenix_, he said as softly as he could, grimacing all the more when she winced at his words. _I have not asked for control of your frame. Focus on my voice, little one. Isolate it to your audio receptors only. I do not require overrides of your programming for this conversation. _

She trembled, trying to focus inward again and battle through the desire to simply leave herself open to his command. His energy filled her, washing across her spark until it flashed just out of the corner of her eye. It liked being this open to their leader, loved the feel of his spark backed by the power of the Matrix. It sucked down that energy like she would devour a bottle of water after a particularly long and punishing workout session.

Phoenix pushed past the drowning power, reaching for the mental picture of that doorway again. It felt like moving through thick syrup as the image of herself leaned against that open door, pushing with all her might to close it. And all the while her spark drew frantically at that power given off by their Prime. After what felt like forever, she managed to close the door, falling to her knees in the process.

And with that closed door, the link between them severed.

She sagged against his fingers, not even realizing that he had held out his hand to catch her. That knocking sensation returned a second later and this time she transformed the sensation into that of a ringing telephone. One that she picked up with gentle care.

_Hello?_

_Much better_, Optimus answered, his tone still echoing powerfully around her skull but it was no longer consuming her entire form. _You have learned to master the ability to differentiate comm. requests quickly._

_Master is not a term I would use at this point_, she replied, stepping out of his grasp and wiping at the sudden sweat across her brow. _More like fumbled my way to the right answer._

_You give yourself too little credit, Phoenix of the Omega Lykaon Clan_.

She blinked at him, mouth falling agape. _How did you know I'd chosen a clan? I haven't told anyone, even Ratchet._

His lip plates curved in a bit of a smile as he straightened to his full height. _You have been broadcasting it clearly to any that have come into your range. It is a curious choice of clan. How did you come by that decision?_

She'd been broadcasting it? Now that was a new surprise. Mentally, she added that bit to her ever growing list of things to ask her mate when she had the moment. _IF_ she ever had it at this point. Still, she found herself shifting from foot to foot, filled with a sudden feeling of unease at the question. _Are you asking as my Prime or as my friend?_

He blinked at that, his optics doing that spin-like thing again as he considered her. She returned that stare, marveling for the first time that his eyes weren't the exact same shade as Ratchet's. There were subtle variations to the coloring, little tale-tell markers that her human eye would have missed completely. Ratchet's optics held a hint of a greenish glitter to them, enough to make them as blue as the waters off the Caribbean to her enhanced gaze. Ironhide's held the slightest hint of purple within the blue, as if his were backlit with a tinge of reddish rage.

Optimus's gaze was a brighter blue, like pure white light had diffused through his lenses.

No, not white light… pure, blindingly bright power. It was the Matrix she saw blazing behind his gaze.

_Would my asking as your Prime make such a difference?_

She had to tear her gaze away from his, force herself to fall back into her own body. He was so consuming, overwhelming, now that she could see things others humans couldn't. And she knew in that moment that she belonged to him as the others did. Some core part of herself, of the spark that gave her life, recognized beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was an Autobot. She would die for him, live for him, and defend him as her Prime with every breath and every pulse of energy that gave her life.

_It shouldn't_, she answered honestly. _But it does._

He seemed to consider that a moment. _Phoenix, there are things that you have yet to learn about your new life. I feel your acceptance of the Autobot cause and the dedication within your spark brings joy to my own. But you are part human as well. I would not see that diminish under the weight you will bear if I accept you into our ranks._

She wasn't quite sure how this conversation turned into an interview to join the Autobots. Hell, she wasn't quite certain how she was broadcasting her clan, either. But what she was certain of was the fact that while his words weren't quite a rejection, they still stung nonetheless_. I understand._

_No_, he replied gently, kindly. _No, you do not. At least not yet. But you will in time_.

Shame rose up again, swallowing her confusion and leaving her empty. She swallowed past the sudden need to cry, bowing her head. _Why won't you accept me now? Is it because I am part flesh?_

_Let me ask you this. Why do you feel the need to weep?_

The tears fell, that one human orb pouring forth her shame and her rejection. _I am ashamed._

_Of what?_

She shook her head, confusion and shame battling for control. _Of the fact that I can't cry for Josh, when I know I should, _she gasped, opening the floodgates of her heart and letting her conflict pour into him._ He was my friend, Optimus, my leader and my lover at one point. And I'm ashamed of it. And of the fact that I can't cry with both eyes now. And of the fact that you caught me trying to hide my tears. _

_Hide your tears, or hide your spark?_

She jerked back at that, eyes wide as they stared into his. Had she really felt shame for that, for covering her spark and her optic with her hand? That had never occurred to her. _I was protecting those around me_, she replied quickly. _I didn't want them to see my optic flashing red. I was so angry at the betrayal that—_

_Do you believe that Ironhide is angry at that betrayal?_ He cut in, again with the gentle sternness of a teacher.

_Of course_, she said automatically. _Who wouldn't be?_

_Do you see him covering his optics in the presence of other NEST officers?_

His words slapped at her worse than any physical rebuke ever could. She stumbled back again, eyes wide though this time in denial. And as everything he said finally sunk in, finally pushed past her shame and wounded pride, she found acceptance of his words. What she had done in covering her parts had been a slap in the face to those that had fought to save her life. She had shamed them in that action, and had shamed her mate.

And Optimus, understanding that she had not meant such with her actions, had graciously intervened before others could take note.

_I'm so sorry_, she bowed her head, shoulders shaking with her grief and shame. _I understand that I have offended you and that I'm not worthy of being called Autobot, not when I can't accept being one in front of others._

A soft clicking sound filled her thoughts and she had vague impression of a parent being amused at how a child could understand and yet not completely comprehend a lesson. It almost felt as if he thought she were punishing herself far more than was necessary. Never before had she felt more like a teenager than now.

_I have not rejected you, Phoenix of the Omega Lykaon Clan. You have earned the right to bear our symbol and to stand in support of our cause. Like Wheeljack, whom I have been told you see as a brother of sorts, I accept you as a civilian dedicated to our cause until such time as circumstances change. _

The relief that he had not cast her out once more brought her to her knees. His hand caught her, lifting her smoothly from the table and placing her on his shoulder. Once more she was enveloped in the flow of his energy, and once more felt so at home and safe that the shame evaporated from her spark. The others in the room that had witnessed the silence exchange – human and Cybertronian alike – nodded their approval and turned back to the matter at hand.

_I chose my clan because of my brother_, she found herself replying.

Optimus shifted his optics to the side, regarding her. _Because of Wheeljack?_

_No, because of Jazz. He's my sparkbrother. He told me so when I saw him in the Matrix the other night._

Those present in the room were treated to the rare and slightly amusing sight of watching Optimus Prime, Leader of the Autobots and Defender of Freedom everywhere, whip his head around and form his face plates in a look of utter shock.


	39. Chapter 39 Surprise

A/N: It's been a while. I don't know where to start. Just believe me when I say that grief comes in strange waves and that things have gotten better since AJ's passing. Slowly but surely I am beginning to find joy in the things that we used to do together. I can finally get through an episode of CSI: Miami or CSI: NY and not look at my computer, waiting for her to message me about some aspect of the plot or who looks the hottest/ugliest in that scene (we used to watch it together). It's taken a while to get to this point.

Getting to the point when I could write something and not sob the entire time? I'm not there yet. But at least now I can write through the tears.

For those that have asked, yes, she was a fantastic writer but, sadly, she did not write TF or use FF dot net to publish her works. Thank you beyond words to those that have checked in on me, those that continue to read and make this story a favorite. Forgive me if this chapter isn't as good as any other. It's been a journey to get to this point, but at last I think it's worth posting. This has not been beta'd. If I took long enough to try and send it out, I might scrap it again and feel like a traitor for continuing to write when she can't anymore. I know that's really stupid of me, but it's the way I feel. Anyway, I am rambling, so I'll shut it and make with the story.

Music for Chapter 39: Surprise  
Don't Forget Me - Way Out West  
Today Has Been Okay - Emiliana Torrini  
The City Lights - Umbrellas  
Everytime - Britney Spears

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but my OCs. Please don't sue. This is just for fun and I'm not making any money.

* * *

She would have preferred having her mate at her side for something like this. Or, if given the option, an entire squad of marines in full riot gear and armed with sabot launching bazookas or something like that. Some would call that much firepower as 'overkill' for what should have been a simple conversation. But when facing a possible interrogation from her fellow colleagues, her fellow Autobots—not to mention her PRIME—nothing was considered too much in her mind. However, having Arcee with her in that moment was the next best alternative.

The femme in question stood in her bi-pedal form, her favorite gun subspaced into her hand and gleaming with a deadly glossy sheen. Golden lights flickered across her optics, a counterpoint to that ocean of blue that was their norm. A tell-tale signal that her tracking systems weren't just operational, but set up on what a human would call a 'hair trigger.' Despite her obvious nervousness, Phoenix had to bite back a smile. Ever since naming herself as a guardian, Arcee had been almost as fanatical as Ironhide when it came to augmenting her combat programming and polishing her weapons.

In fact, wasn't there some rumor going on about how the femme in question and the Weapon's Specialist had almost come to blows over the last container of polish? All of her sources told her that it was more than just idle speculation. And yet, oddly enough, neither she nor the surprisingly efficient Dr. Song-Ming Tam (who would have thought the woman was a hacker in her spare time?) had been able to find so much as a byte of surveillance video supporting that claim. Either Prowl had gotten to it almost before the incident had finished recording, or it was truly just a rumor.

Glancing up at her best-friend and guardian, watching the way the light played off her extra glossy armor and weaponry, she tended to believer the former rather than the latter. The wink that Arcee gave her in return only added more weight to that belief. So far the femme wasn't talking, no matter how many time Phoenix asked about it. But that wink promised that the story would come out… eventually. Phoenix mirrored that wink, trying her best to shove the sudden onset of nerves back down into the pit that spawned them and turned her attention back to those still left in the room.

She almost wished that she hadn't. Optimus was still there, his optics dimmed as he spoke with someone for some reason. Ironhide was present as well, rolling his cannons and looking more like a caged animal than a member of a war council. Phoenix dropped her gaze before she could see the expression on either Lennox or Epps. She wasn't ready to go there yet. It wasn't every day that a mere human got the drop of Optimus, even verbally, like she had.

But she wasn't just a _mere human_ anymore, was she…

_Relax, _Arcee sent over their private comm. channel. _Nothing is going to happen to you while I'm around._

Phoenix swallowed back another dose of nervousness. _Sweetie, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but this isn't like fighting the Decepticons or arguing with the lug-heads in the Senate. I'm about to be grilled by our Prime._

The feeling of Cybertronian laughter danced across her spine. _I love the fact that you can call him 'our Prime' now and truly mean it._

_And normally I would be doing the happy dance with you on that account. But right about now I think I'm scared. _

_You think he would harm you?_

_No, I think I might harm myself with something I say._

Arcee frowned thoughtfully, shifting as she did so to casually slide a step closer to her charge. _What do you mean?_

Phoenix took a deep breath, let it out slowly. _Well, as far as I can figure, only a Prime has been able to enter the Matrix and come out of it again._ _I think that's pretty much true, considering the way Optimus about fell all over himself when I mentioned talking to Jazz in the Matrix._

_As a rule, I would agree with you. However, since encountering your species I have corrected my thought processes. Sam Witwicky has also claimed to have passed through the Matrix and come out, speaking with the Ancient Primes along the way._ The femme frowned slightly. _No, claiming is the wrong word. I meant to say that he has done so with absolute certainty. I was there. I witnessed the appearance of the Matrix of the Ancient Primes and also the way it activated at the touch of the young human's hands. Is it any surprise that you have done the same? Twice already?_

Phoenix shifted from foot to foot, wrapping her arms around herself and trying to put what she was feeling into words. Her eyes glanced down at her feet and oddly enough took some shade of comfort in what she saw. Inwardly, she took a moment to smile, to admire her favorite pair of Jimmy Choo sandals – the ones with the semi-clear wedge heels containing hand-blown glass butterflies. Arcee had plucked the pair out of her newly designed closet and brought them to her, an attempt to help her friend feel more like herself. An attempt to help Phoenix find a touch of her old fire and courage.

Fire and courage… those were two core personality traits that had been missing in her since that tragic flight. Two traits that she had missed in herself so dearly, and that was going to have to change rather quickly. She had the right to wear the Autobot symbol now, the first human ever granted that right. The sulking and uncertainty, right along with her month-long pity-party, had to go.

Period. End of list.

Just looking at the shoes, at the hand-braided leather strapping detailed with miniature rainbow crystals instilled a flutter of joy into her soul. Just wearing that particular pair, remembering that trip to Paris wherein she had spied them in some uber expensive boutique's window and had vowed to own them right then and there, grounded her to reality. They were real, a part of her life even before her first encounter with Starscream at Mission City. And as such they reminded her that things were never as dark as they seemed. There was always joy to be found when the sadness had passed.

And while the Cybertronian part of her did not understand the human obsession with carbon-based, non-armor-enhancing foot coverings, it recognized the emotions that such things instilled in their shared frame. And instead of arguing about it, Phoenix had a feeling that her spark gazed down through their shared eyes at the shoes with a sense of child-like wonder.

Great. She and her spark had finally found something they could agree upon outside of their chosen mate. Who would have thought that designer shoes—or more appropriately the feelings they caused—would have been a common bonding ground? Though glancing up at Arcee and then at Ironhide, watching the way the former's free hand absently toyed with the settings on her rifle's scope and the latter rolled his cannons almost unconsciously, it shouldn't have surprised her. The fact that either one would have felt like half a bot without their weapons only serve to prove her point.

Human or Cybretronian: each species found a kind of strength in that which made them most comfortable. They preferred their weapons. She preferred her shoes.

_I'm sorry. I didn't quite get that._

Phoenix gave a little start, not realizing that she had transmitted that last part. _Nothing_, she countered quickly, actually blushing this time as both she and her spark felt embarrassed at that slip. Or more accurately felt embarrassed at loosing themselves to shoe-gazing. _I was just thinking about comfort of all things. Optimus is a Prime, and carries the Matrix of Leadership within him. It's part of him. Sam was comfortable with the Matrix of the Ancient Primes, having been told by Jetfire and the Primes, themselves, what to expect. He was also comfortable with the energies of such artifacts after having come in direct contact with the All-Spark. That's totally different from my experience._

_I'd say, _Arcee replied almost sardonically. _Sam may have 'known what to expect' when he came in contact with life-spring of our species, but you hold a part of it in your frame. How can you not be comfortable with something that is a part of your being?_

Phoenix shifted from foot to foot once more, frowning softly. _That's what I'm afraid of._

Some of the mirth vanished from her guardian, and Arcee frowned a bit. _Again, I don't quite follow you, my friend._

_I feel like… _she groped for the right words. _I can't explain it, Arcee. I feel like I'm on the cusp of two different worlds. I'm not human and I'm not Cybertronian, and honestly I'm a little frightened of where that leaves me in the grand scheme of things. And to make matters worse, something I said to Optimus earlier has me worried that I might fall into one world and loose the other. _

Her frown deepened. _What did you say?_

Phoenix took a deep breath, let it out slowly. The action caused her spark to look up from its metaphysical gazing at her shoes and raise an eyebrow questioningly, almost worried. No doubt it felt the tremors of trepidation in her being, watched it echo across the shared landscape of her mind. She had to fight the urge to place her hand over her spark again, not to hide it but to sooth it. Like a human would stroke the head of a young child to provide reassurance and comfort. Everything was okay. Everything was going to be alright…

If only she could believe that, herself.

_Somehow my conversation with our Prime turned into an interview for joining the Autobot cause. _She began.

_Yes, _Arcee prompted, confusion evident in her optics. _It's an interview I've been told that you passed with flying colors. You have earned the right to wear our emblem and to call yourself one of us. Why would that make you uneasy? Isn't that what you wanted?_

_With all my spark_, Phoenix replied, a bit of an uneasy grin dancing across her lips. _But it's the way I went about it that's causing me upset._

Arcee shook her head slightly. _I think the human part of you worries too much. While I by no means advocate the ends justifying the means in any situation, I think you place too much importance on how you achieved a particular goal. _

_We'll just have to agree to disagree on that one, _Phoenix replied, letting her eyes drift across the room.

Almost everyone was present – save for Ratchet, of course. She felt him watching, though, both from the view screen where his face loomed larger than life and from the soothing caress that drifted across her spark every now and then. He couldn't leave the med bay, not with Jolt still hanging onto life by a thread. Jolt was stable for the time being, and the team was fairly certain that they had removed the last of the virus Ratbat had so lovingly injected from his core systems. But until they could precisely identify the coding in that particularly nasty program, Ratchet couldn't say for absolute certainty that his apprentice was out of danger.

Instead he joined them via video and comm.

_So what was it that you said to Prime? _Arcee prodded gently.

_I asked him why he rejected making me a full member of the team. _

Arcee smirked. _Probably for the same reason that Sam or Wheeljack aren't full members of the team, either. No matter how much experience you bring to the cause, you have to realize that it's a life-long commitment. And that commitment could last as long as the stars burn or vanish in the next instant—along with your life. When you fight a war, you are never guaranteed your happily ever after. _

_Preaching to the choir, my sister,_ Phoenix managed to smile a bit more. _That's something else our species share in common. I swore my oaths to defend freedom with my last breath when I joined the Air Force. _

_So why are you surprised that Prime wants to really give you time to think over your commitment before you swear to him?_

_I'm not… now. At first I thought…_

Arcee's smirk became a frown in the blink of an eye. _You thought what? Tell me you didn't say something stupid. Your kind is known to let your vocal circuitry activate before your logic center has finished processing the thought._

Phoenix flashed what she hoped was an apologetically charming smile. It fell short of its mark—by leaps and bounds apparently. She could tell that by the twin stares coming at her from her best friend and her mate. She sighed.

_I asked him if he rejected me because I was part flesh._

Arcee just stared at her. Just. Stared. Ratchet's image also did the same, though he added a look of you-know-better to his facial features. Part of her wanted to know how he knew what she was talking about. The other part of her didn't. Having one bot that she cared about witnessing her embarrassment was bad enough. Having her mate witness it, too? Absently, she wondered if she could leap off the top of the autobot-sized conference table and hide somewhere.

_That was dumb._Arcee put in bluntly.

_Yeah, I know. Though Prime was kind enough not to call me on it. Anyway, it wasn't his reaction that has me all worried. It was my own. Think about what I just said, Arcee. I asked if he rejected me because I was _part flesh. _I spoke about my natural body like it was a curse, like it was a weakness. I'm human, Arcee. So why would I think such bad thoughts about myself unless…_

_Unless you are gaining more than physical abilities from your spark. _Arcee finished, her tone grim with understanding. _Have you spoken to Ratchet about this?_

_There hasn't been time. _

_I suggest you make time. This doesn't sound like something that will go away on its own. How long has this been going on, anyway?_

She shrugged a shoulder. _Not really sure anymore. It's been a gradual thing. Bits of instincts—or base coding as Ratchet once explained—coming to me that aren't really my own. Or at least aren't based in human experience._

_I'll take you to med bay as soon as this meeting is over. And I'm not taking no for an answer. You are like a spark-sister to me, Phoenix. And if something is wrong with yours, I will make damn certain that it's fixed. I don't want to loose anyone else. This war has taken enough from us all._

Phoenix nodded, unconsciously leaning back against her friend and guardian, feeling a soft pulsing coming from her spark. Her own sent out a pulse of similar energy, blending with it and enveloping them both in a soothing blanket of peace. The Autobot version of a comforting hug. _I'm not planning on going anywhere, Arcee. You have my promise on that._

Neither one of them had to vocalize that one shared thought that hovered over their comfort like a dark cloud. The thought that no one ever planned on dying, and no one could outright promise to be there forever. Phoenix glanced up at the view screen, found her mate staring back at her with the same haunted expression. Again she was reminded of the fact that the love of her life and the other Autobots were the last of a dying race. The last survivors of a war that had literally destroyed them from the inside out, taking refuge on a planet filled with life to exist until the light of their sparks flickered and faded.

That knowledge was always lost to the sheer magnificence of their presence, of their advanced technology. So many things they had seen and accomplished, and for all of their fantastic achievements, war had turned their world into tattered ruins, their people scattered to the stars. Yes, one tended to forget that despite the hope and joy they brought to the humans around them, their tale was that of sadness, woe, and unimaginable loss.

For all that they had attained, for all their far-reaching insight, they had never planned on this.

_Do not see these things, light of my spark,_ Ratchet whispered, his love and his voice drifting with compassion across their bond, shattering the grief that threatened to swallow her whole. _These are my sorrows, my regrets that I bear in silence. My fear and anger for what has happened to Jolt is slipping past my control._

_I would take them from you if I could, _she whispered in return, wanting so much to be in his hands, her own pressed against the armor over his spark. _I would give my life to return your world to what it once was. I have told you that time and again. _

_You have. But that is a power beyond even our abilities. What is done is done, _he soothed. _Set it aside and think on it no more. Focus on the things we can affect in the here and now, and let me shoulder the burden of the past for us both._

She wanted to say more, knew that she should, and yet there were no words in either language to sooth the ache of genocide, or to wash away the depression that followed in its wake. Like her conversation with Jazz in the Matrix, there was simply no way to ease the heartbreak of memory and loss.

_When this is over, I want to see Jazz,_ she found herself stating. _I need to see him, my love. I… I need closure for his death. It's a human thing that I can't really explain. I just… I need to see him._

On the screen, Ratchet inclined his head in a nod of agreement. _After the meeting, _he replied, and then some of the compassion left his tone, replaced by the icy needle-like tingle of all-too-familiar annoyance. _And then we shall visit med bay. Arcee tells me that you have been keeping secrets from me. By all rights, I should be screaming at you for that. _

Phoenix felt the heat of embarrassment climbing into her cheeks, and she sent a slant-eyed glare at her best friend. Arcee simply shrugged a shoulder, continuing to scan the room as if nothing in the world was amiss. Continuing to give them as much privacy as she could. The channel switched in her head in the blink of an eye, like picking up the TV remote and pressing a button. There was a part of her that took a little pride in that act. At least the internal comm. thing was a portion of her new life that she could handle with ease.

_Not even going to bother to deny snitching on me?_ She challenged.

_Should I?_

Phoenix crossed her arms over her chest. _Payback's a bitch, my friend._

_Then it will have to wait until the meeting is over. Sam has arrived. _

Phoenix blanched, tossing a look over her shoulder. _Oh goodie. Me and the Boy Wonder are finally going to meet. Can't wait._

_Why the hostility? Sam isn't all that bad. Yes, he's young and continues to make the unwise decisions of youth. But he has courage. We owe him a great deal._

It was Phoenix's turn to hunch her shoulders in a kind of shrug. _I don't know. I just… The feeling is odd when I think of him, that's all. Like a buzz in the back of my brain that won't go away. If I didn't know any better, I would say that something is warning me not to interact with him. Like… like he's bad for me or something._

As if to prove the point, Sam was standing in the center of the room, staring up at the mammoth conference room table. Staring at her. Hard. No hint of malice was running off the boy, no alarm bells in the back of her head screaming that he had a gun in his back pocket or anything equally as hostile. If she didn't know any better, she would have sworn that he meant her no harm at all. And yet…

And yet it felt like someone—or some _thing_—other than Sam was staring at her from behind those expressive eyes.

Her spark reacted first, rising up like some kind of ethereal force within her. The power flared across her limbs, expanding within her to unimaginable heights. Phoenix bit her lip hard, waiting for the pain, waiting for the power to start shooting down her arms and trying to call forth or transform weapons out of her flesh. Within her, the spark snarled, reaching for those precious transform sequences buried within its base coding.

And slamming headfirst into a metaphysical brick wall.

ACCESS DENIED. TRANSFORM SEQUENCE ON MEDICAL LOCKDOWN PER RATCHET, CHIEF MEDICAL OFFICER.

She fell backwards on her hands in relief, cold sweat breaking out across her body. Her coding was still frozen, still held just a hair out of grasp by her mate. There would be no pain. She opened eyes she hadn't realized were closed, staring back at Sam. Her optic spun as scan after scan was relayed to her organic brain, glyphs and symbols she still could not understand flashing across her vision at blinding speeds. Energy poured off the boy like a river, great washes of it just splashing everywhere.

Then he lifted his hand, beckoning her… calling her. She could hear it, though it wasn't a sound. Just like she could feel the tug on her spark though there was nothing physical about it. The spark inside her chest felt like it was going to leap out of her mouth and run to that outstretched hand. She was already crawling forward before she knew it, reaching out to Sam, to the power in and around him, like he was the most delicious thing she could imagine.

Her spark threw itself over and over against that metaphysical wall, snarling and snapping like a caged animal. Pain exploded behind her eyes, her brain feeling as if it had been injected with boiling water. She could feel the watery probe of her spark coursing through the lobes of her brain, seeking and searching a way around the overrides, cursing the weak organic material that made up her core processor. Each work-around it tried was met by further failure.

ACCESS DENIED. WEAPONS LOCK INITATED BY IRONHIDE, WEAPONS SPECIALIST.

ACCESS DENIED. UPLINK TO EXTERNAL INFORMATION SOURCE LOCKED BY PROWL, SECOND IN COMMAND.

ACCESS DENIED. FRAME OVERRIDES FROZEN BY OPTIMUS PRIME.

The world wavered, twisted, and filled her ears with white noise. Until it narrowed down, folding in on itself like a tunnel: one that lead straight to Sam and that one outstretched hand. There were words buried in that white noise, words in a language that should have been familiar to her and was not. She couldn't make them out, not in the rush of static that filled her head. All she knew was that she had to get to Sam.

But was it really Sam that stared at her with those too blue eyes? Did Sam have blue eyes at all? She was partially aware that he didn't, that no human could have eyes like that. But that part of herself was lost to the pressure building inside her chest as each second slowly ticked away.

She had to touch him, touch that one hand that he held out like a lifeline. Only then would the pressure go away, would the world right itself and the breath return to her lungs. Distantly she felt a part of herself listening to those hidden words, accepting and understanding and … and promising something. But the truth in that promise was buried in static, lost to her. But maybe, possibly, if she touched the hand that was Sam's and yet not Sam's, all that would go away and she wouldn't feel as if she had gone insane.

Tendrils of power extruded from the boy's outstretched hand, smoke-like curls that lazily floated on the currents of the air, wafting slowly in her direction. The hidden words picked up their intensity, a frantic urgency that sang in her blood and pulsed in time with the rope-like rays of power. She stretched her arm out and down, trying to close the distance between that power and herself. Slowly, oh so achingly slowly, the power wove its way towards her. Tears poured from her human eye, partly due to the ache within her for that power. Partly because the orb was weak and organic, unable to see the beauty that was the power Sam-that-wasn't-Sam was trying to hand to her.

After what felt like forever, that lovely power touched her out-stretched fingertips and her world was enveloped in a shower of sparks…


	40. Chapter 40 Destiny

A/N: Please don't kill me. I know it's been a while. But I am determined to finish this story one way or the other. :P Thank you all who have continued to read this story and support me for the whole year (my goodness, I've been working on this for a year already!) that it has taken to put this loving insanity down into words. You all are my heroes. Thank you for sticking with me while I mourned for AJ. While I miss her so much it hurts physically, I know I have to stop letting that pain interfere with my life. I have to keep going, and I know that she would have wanted that, too.

Thank you to all of you who have said as much. I'm a stubborn woman (no wonder Ratchet is my fave mech!) and it's taken a while for that good, true advice to sink in. Now that it has, I have this one last thing to say on behalf of AJ and all my internet pals: _If you enjoy a story, please review it. If something an author has written or done in a story has touched you deeply, take the few minutes to tell them so. Because you never know when it will be too late. _

I'd like to shout out to my wonderfully talented betas: Razorgaze and Hummergrey. Their amazing skills and friendships have kept me from making serious mistakes and have made my crazy story easier for all of you to follow. Their own work is amazing as well. I have links in my profile page. Please check out their stories. You'll love them.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun. No money is being made.

* * *

It was dark this time around. The kind of darkness that had a physical depth to it, like the air around her had thickened and become more substantial than it had a right to be. And it was colder, too, as if the agent that had condensed the air had been composed of slushy snow and chilled bits of … of something _not_ of the physical world. Blips and blotches of greater blackness swam in that sea of darkness, an asymmetrical maze that followed where her eye moved, superimposing themselves over everything in her field of vision.

Not that there was a whole hell of a lot to see, she reflected glumly, trying to shake away the little black swirly things from her vision. That, she knew at least, was the visual after affects of staring into that shower of sparks that had come from the energy pattern emanating from the Witwicky kid. Going all gaga-eyed at the stuff wasn't the brightest thing in the world she could have done, but that optic of hers wouldn't look away, as if drawn to it. Now that she thought about it, her spark had nearly reacted the same way. Not in the same way it drew to her beloved, but it was almost as if the thing in her chest yearned for that energy like her organic body yearned for oxygen.

One hand rubbed at her abused organic eye while the other drifted outward, fingers trying to feel their way through the darkness. Not so much as an air current tickled her fingertips in return and as if that wasn't enough to spike up her fear-factor, the spark beneath her breast was suddenly and unnaturally still. Silent and immobile, where before, it had practically burned its way out of her flesh. The briefest flutter of panic ghosted across her consciousness and she did her best to stamp it out. Spark or no spark, she had never before been harmed while in… in wherever she was… and panicking would only delay her from getting out of it again.

Not that it didn't bother her to all Hell and back that she couldn't feel the thing all of a sudden. The silly little spark interfered with her life constantly, upending her entire existence every time it felt like interacting with the human world. It had been so hard to get used to in the beginning, and now missing it was like missing… well… her heartbeat.

The discombobulated black spots vanished after a bit, and Phoenix opened both eyes. Blackness was everywhere; a limbo-like state that left her dizzy for a moment. There was no up or down, no sense of direction that she could determine, yet her feet were rooted firmly to… to something. She clung to that concept, too, added it to the quick list of resources at her disposal. She was not drifting aimlessly. She was standing on her own two legs, and that was enough to stomp down the last of the panic.

Because if she was standing, then it meant she could walk. She could fight and defend herself if necessary. She wasn't hopeless or helpless.

But she wasn't in the sands of ancient Egypt again, either. And there was no one to greet her this time around.

"Hello? Hey, it's me. Uh, is anyone there? Jazz? Nova? Eclipse?"

There was no answer. Not even an echo of her own voice drifting back to her. The sound felt as if it had been absorbed by the blackness before it had left her mouth. She swallowed hard and nearly gagged, feeling the thick iciness of the air coating the inside of her mouth, sliding down her throat in thick and dirty gulps. It was enough to make her stumble, hands flying to her throat as she retched, dry heaving until she thought she was going to pass out.

This definitely wasn't where she thought she was supposed to be. This wasn't safe and warm and filled with metaphors like poker games and hot balls of electricity above her head. This was somewhere else entirely.

Phoenix clamped one hand around her mouth and nose, trying to breathe shallowly, trying to fight down the last bits of nausea. "What is this place?" she shouted through the need to vomit. "Why am I here?"

The darkness around her wavered slightly in response and became stationary once more.

Her efforts were rewarded with another round of retching, her throat burning from the exertion. Anger flared within her, hot fury at being trapped and helpless slicing through the cold in her veins. Hadn't she said, just a moment ago, that she was so sick and tired of always being scared, of always being weak? What had happened to that strong woman that had shot Screamer in the optic at point-blank range? Where was all the quiet reserve that had gotten her through more aerial dog-fights with her flight squad than she could count? She had crawled through fire and agony on that doomed flight to rescue Josh for crying out loud!

She balled one hand into a fist, striking down at the not-ground as hard as she could. It gave way to her force, yielding like pliable rubber, and then bounced back into place in just the same fashion.

"I didn't do anything wrong!" she screamed, punching at it again and again, the cold of her skin burning away with the hot anger inside herself. "Nova? Prima? Why won't you answer me? Jazz, for the love of all that is good, please! Answer me!"

"_**You should not be here**_."

The mechanical voice came out of nowhere and everywhere. Its depth rocked her to her core, stole the breath from her and knocked her on her ass. Slowly, so very slowly, a tiny point of light formed in the distance. It was a jarring addition to the frozen hell she found herself within, a tiny bright star whose radiance was nearly blinding. She lifted one hand to shield her eyes, waiting for her optic to relay data that her brain couldn't possibly understand.

No symbols flashed. No tell-tale internal buzz of her Cybertronian half springing into action.

Nothing… like the nothingness around her.

"_**You should not be here**_."

Fear rose up, fighting to eclipse the rage, and she bit her lower lip hard. She would not give into it. Not now, not when she knew pure emotion would blind her to everything, both literally and figuratively. She needed to concentrate, to keep her wits about her… to… to do _something!_

"No, I shouldn't," she replied harshly without thinking. "By all rights I should be dead. But I'm not. I'm here now and I want to go home."

Again the darkness wavered and went silent, and she got the impression of something or someone waiting. Deliberating. Pondering. Had her answer been that much of a surprise? It certainly had been for herself, she realized. Here she had been thinking that she shouldn't be in this strange not-place with its killing air. And yet she had answered about her life in general, not about a physical location.

The bit of light pulsed brightly and seemed to grow, eating more of the darkness until she could make out shapes in the light. Very distant and very vague, humanoid with two legs and two arms and the shape of a head, she assumed. There were more than one, but they were too far away for her to tell just how many. They moved unlike any being she knew. No, that wasn't quite right. They moved with an alien stiffness to them, as if without a wasted motion at all.

They moved like the Autobots moved.

"_**We have not been watching you. This meeting was not foreseen**_."

Watching her? Foreseen? She blinked rapidly and took a tentative step towards the light. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of movement before the darkness swallowed it. For a moment, it almost seemed as if someone was walking parallel to her some distance away. But it was only for a moment, and she dared not take her eyes off the safety of the light. Even if she didn't know where it led, it had to be better than standing in bone-chilling darkness.

"I know," she said, swallowing hard and taking another step forward. Trying to come up with the right answers, trying to make sense of the most cryptic conversation she'd ever had. Even the ridiculous poker game wasn't as filled with enigmas as this! "Trust me, if I knew then what was to come, I…"

She'd what? Change it all? Run away? Marry Josh and have two point five kids and an affair with the pool boy? Her hand drifted over to the silent space where her spark normally pulsed, fingertips brushing with gentleness over the "X" shaped scar above where her heart should have been. No emotions echoed back to her from their spark mate bond, no startled reaction as her ghosting touch awoke Ratchet's spark. But she knew it was there, knew it was his fingers that had repaired her broken body, his love that had willed her to survive, to wake up, when it would have been so easy to drift off into the darkness forever.

To drift off into darkness like this.

"Trust me," she began again, fighting back sudden tears. The sudden fear that she may never leave the darkness, never feel his love again. "I know that none of this was supposed to happen. And if I knew then what was to come, I still would have made the same choices. I love him. He's… he's part of me, you understand."

"_**You were not foreseen**_."

Her skin went numb, ice-like at those words. The light started to shrink, taking with it the tiny bits of warmth it had thrown out. "NO!" she screamed, running as fast and as hard as she could, knowing she would never make it to the light in time and yet unable to stop from trying. "NO! Just because something is not foreseen doesn't mean it has no purpose! No one is perfect and no prophesies or 'foreseeing' are ever one hundred percent accurate."

The light seemed to pause a moment, almost as if those within it were reconsidering their decision to throw the switch and cast everything into pitch black. That little tidbit didn't stop her frantic pace. She had to get to the light. Somehow she knew that if she stayed in the darkness then not even all of Ratchet's skill would be enough to bring her back.

Instead of growing brighter again, the light pulsed, throwing off arcs of radiance like lightning. Distantly, she was reminded of the storm that had appeared over her head the last time she was in this place—or at least a place like it. Jazz had told her that the lightning storm was not a part of the Matrix, but he hadn't had the time to go into details. Not with the thing roiling and lowering itself downward like some kind of crazy electrical tornado. It had scared the shit out of her then, and encountering that lighting-like activity this time around did little to alleviate that fact.

Another arc of lightning sizzled past her, its flash bright enough to illuminate her surroundings. There wasn't much to see, just miles and miles of blackness without end… save for the figure pacing her in the far distance. That was a bit surprising. She had thought herself all alone in this darkness, save for the figures in the light far, far ahead of her. But this other form was running as hard as it could, too, mirroring her desperate attempt to get out of the cold.

Further splashes of lightning revealed that the form was Cybertronian in design, lithe like a femme with very familiar dark armor pricked here and there with flashes of silver.

The cold was forgotten. The light at the end of the darkness was forgotten. The annoyingly scary lightning wasn't even a blip on her attention radar anymore. Everything that had been so pressing mere seconds ago felt like ancient history as she came to a direct stand-still in the middle of all that dark.

The other femme did, too. Staring in her direction with the same kind of shocked awareness that Phoenix was certain was plastered across her own face. Could it be? Was she really staring at her spark, or rather the physical form her spark desired? It was hard to tell and not just because of the pervading blackness that was her environment. All the other times that she had stared at the femme had been with their shared spark as a back-light. Literally so bright that she could only make out the shell and not the distinct features. There was that dream she'd had, of course, the one where she was the femme and her human shell had been like the foreign invader to her frame. But staring down at one's own self rarely gave the complete picture. That's what mirrors were for…

As if in response to that thought, an arc of that lightning-energy slashed between them and suddenly distance was no longer a factor. She and the femme were eye to optic, somehow both the same size and yet neither taller nor diminished to make it happen. Like the poker game all those months back, the physical concepts of size, shape, and distance had no meaning in this place. Phoenix stared into glowing green optics, watching those orbs spin and focus back into her own with wide, near-terror expressions. Tentatively she reached out a hand… and paused as the femme did the same, its servo coming to a halt just as her hand did.

Phoenix opened her mouth, not sure what to say or do, and watched the femme copy that movement. Startled, she jerked back, only to see the femme perform the same action at the same time.

It was like staring into a mirror, only that this one reflected what was inside rather than what was on the outside.

She watched in a kind of muted horror as her hand seemed to move on its own accord, fingers trembling and reaching out. The femme did the same, shaking so badly that Phoenix could hear the sound of metal tapping against metal. Flesh met metal, both warm and familiar and… and like she was touching both of her own fingertips together, feeling the sensation of touching… and being touched at the same time.

"Are you 'me?' Are you my spark?" Phoenix whispered aloud, watching the femme's mouth plates form the same words. She jerked her head towards the pulsing light. "Is that what you meant?" she shouted. "That she… That my spark was not foreseen and not the human 'me?'"

The darkness rippled with displeasure, icy needles of air pricking her skin. "_**We were not watching you. You were not foreseen.**_"

"Yes, yes. We've gone over that part," Phoenix spat in exasperation… and then it started to click together in her mind. Her eyes narrowed. "If not me, then _who_ were you watching?"

Again the light appeared to hesitate, and for once Phoenix caught a glimpse of what made that light appear to pulse. The figures within it were moving to and fro, and if she didn't know any better, she could have sworn they were having some kind of animated discussion. Could it be that the … the whatever the Autobots called their 'ancestors' were having a good old fashion family argument?

The light became solid once more, and some of the cold eased. "_**For a long time we have watched the human boy called Samuel Witwicky**_," the voice said again, sounding a bit more reasonable this time around. "_**He risked everything to save Optimus Prime, our last descendant. He fulfilled his destiny, returning to his physical life. He carries the scars and power of his destiny."**_

"But I didn't risk my life to save a Prime," Phoenix reasoned, her eyes drifting back to the femme before her. Their hands flexed in unison, fleshly fingers locking over metal digits until the two were clasped tightly. "I didn't have a destiny. That's why you are so upset, isn't it? I was saved by one of your kind, but not at your direction. I wasn't chosen by you. I was chosen by the All-Spark, my life created _by_ the All-Spark, like my brother before me."

She expected the light to flicker, almost flinched as if expecting the cold to come searing down on her skin and blast her to nothingness. It didn't. If anything, the area grew a touch warmer. She was on the right track. Finally, she was beginning to make sense out of some part of her new life.

Finally, she was gaining an element of control.

"I'm outside of your scope of view," she continued, looking back towards the light. "I—_We_," she corrected, tossing a slight smile at the femme. "We shouldn't have our lives. The All-Spark was destroyed, save for a few pieces of it. There should not have been any more shard sparks. But here I am—here _we_ are. And we have a new destiny, transformed by the All-Spark."

The light flickered fast and hard, looking like a strobe light from all the activity therein. Phoenix couldn't help the bit of a smile that formed on her lips. Someone long ago, when she had first started her career in the Senate committees, had told her that she could out argue the stars themselves if given the opportunity. Apparently going through a near-death experience hadn't stripped that ability from her.

_Eat your heart out_, _Glickson,_ she mused, letting that smile become a full on grin. _I beat you and I think I've got a hold on these guys as well_.

The femme version of herself started to chuckle as if reading her thoughts, a low sultry sound that had her glancing in that direction. The femme's faceplates held the same saucy grin that was on her human lips, but there was a twinkle to those green-glowing optics that let Phoenix know that the spark was fully in charge of the frame again. She flicked a quick glance at the strobe-like activity far down the tunnel; just to confirm that whomever—or whatever—was down there was still carrying on in rapid debate.

"So we can see each other now," she said softly, tipping her head to the side as she looked back at her spark-self. "Does this mean we can communicate?"

The femme seemed to ponder that a moment, and then nodded once.

"Great," Phoenix gave a somewhat lopsided grin. "Do you have any idea where we are this time? This can't be the Matrix. All my trips through the Matrix landed me hard in Ancient Egypt, and I don't think the Matrix lives in Sam, either."

The femme pursed her lip plates, again as if deciding on how much to reveal, before shaking her head.

"So it's not the Matrix," Phoenix confirmed.

Again, the femme shook her head.

"So where are we this time?"

Her spark glanced to the side, staring over at the flickering light, and then gave a shrug of one shoulder. "Where do you think?" she heard her own voice ask.

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be asking."

"You'd ask even if you already knew the answer, just to hear yourself talk, baby girl," a familiar voice laughed softy. "Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much? Then again, they said that about me, too."

Femme and human whipped their heads to the right, watching as Jazz emerged from the inky darkness. She and her spark were both moving before either realized it, running full tilt at their spark-brother. Arms reached out in a very human gesture, wanting to hug him, to feel the thrum of two sparks spawned from the same creator pulsing in unison. It didn't occur to either of them that as they ran that their paths angled towards one another, overlapping and merging until only one entity leaped into Jazz's open arms.

"Jazz," Phoenix half-purred/half-sobbed, burying her face into the crook of his shoulder armor where it reached his neck.

His scent overwhelmed her, a clean smoky smell that reminded her of hot nights and long stretches of empty highway, of racing against the wind and loving every moment of it. Another image followed quickly on the heels of the first, of a place she had never known and highways that stretched overhead in loops that defied modern human construction. Still, the feeling of racing the wind at dangerous speeds accompanied it.

She and her spark, once again a single unit, identifying their spark-brother in their own unique way.

"Phoenix," he whispered back, holding her closely. "You shouldn't be here."

That earned him a chuckle. "Tell me about it. I seem to have a bad habit of falling into places that no human should ever see. If you could tell me how to stop it, I would. Trust me, this isn't what I expected after meeting Witwicky."

He pulled back from her gently, setting her back on her feet. Neither seemed pulsed or surprised at the fact that they were once again the same height, able to interact without issue. "I wish I knew. My encounter with the boy was short. I'd love to know how I'm even here."

"Jazz, where is _here_? I don't even know where the hell I am."

Jazz winced, tossing her a sideways look. "Keep a lid on the profanity, lil sis. This isn't the place for it if we are where I think we are."

The way he had flinched, the soft reverence of his words finally caught up with her. She'd been so relieved to find anyone that she could talk to that she'd almost forgotten about the argument down at the end of the tunnel.

"Jazz," she whispered fiercely, scanning the darkness again as the feeling of intense unease returned. "Tell me where we are. I'm starting to freak out."

"I… I don't know for sure," he hesitated, battle visor sliding into place with a silent click. He glanced around at the darkness, seeing things that she never could.

"How about your best guess?"

The visor lifted, soft blue optics looking into hers. "You aren't going to like it."

"Since when has _that_ ever stopped me from wanting the truth?"

An almost-grin crossed his lip plates, a twinkle in his optics that reminded her so much of the Jazz she had heard about in stories. "True that," he said. "Brace yourself, then. Because I think we're in a fragment of the All-Spark."

He wasn't joking. After taking a good long while to process that bit of info, she realized that he was honestly and completely telling her the truth.

There was a part of her that wished he was joking, just having a laugh at her expense. Jazz, who could make light of anything in the known universe—and probably a few things that weren't—was as serious as death. Phoenix winced at that thought. Okay, it was a bad pun to say he was as serious as the grave considering the fact that, well, he was dead. Part of her made a mental note to go back to Ironhide and tell him that even in death Jazz was still the wise-cracking smart-aft he was in life.

She'd damn well broadcast that news, if she was able to find her way out of this…

"In subspace with the All-Spark," she repeated, staring at him with wide eyes. "You. Me. Inside something that was shattered into mere fragments smaller than half my height. In a place that shouldn't exist in lieu of the fact that the All-Spark cube was destroyed. And we're supposed to do… what, exactly?"

He slanted another patented Jazz look in her direction, the one that practically screamed stop-acting-like-you-have-slag-for-processors. "Baby girl, if I knew that do you think I'd be standing here dropping my jaw gears with you?"

"I don't know," She made a slow turn, starting with the light at the end of the tunnel and ending with it. Nothing but the cold black greeted her vision. "Maybe if it suited you…"

Jazz huffed a little laugh. "Normally I would agree with you."

"But this isn't normal," she finished, backing up so that her back was against his backplates. "You got any functioning weapons?"

The way his back stiffened gave her all the answer she needed. "No," he said softly. "And even if I did, I would not desecrate this place with their use. If we are where I think we are, even processing such a thing is considered blasphemy. The All-spark is hope and life, not destruction. Our choices created the war and the destruction that followed. I will NOT repeat those mistakes."

"And if we're not with the All-Spark?"

He shrugged. "Then I'm out of ideas. You?"

She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "We could always try to make it to the light."

"Yeah," he remarked sarcastically. "Because that worked so well last time you tried it."

Phoenix tipped her head backward, bumping his helm with the crown of her head in mock-anger. Not even the desire to smack her spark-brother was enough to make her turn her back on the darkness. Because if Jazz was there, than other beings could be there, too. Beings like, say, the Fallen. It wasn't an idea she was willing to ignore. She'd seen the tapes of when the fragment of the All-Spark had been stolen, heard the stories and reports of how that tiny piece of supposedly dead alien metal had revived Megatron.

"Smart aft," she snarked back at him. "Not helping."

"We could stand here and wait, then."

"For what?"

"For whatever the Ancient Primes have in store for us."

The way he said it had her risking a backward glance. "You sound like you have an idea of what's coming."

Jazz shifted his weight from foot to foot a moment, an action that would have made other mechs seem child-like, but on Jazz it added a layer of mellow contemplation. "Not so much an idea as a speculation. They defeated the Fallen by sacrificing their physical lives to delay him," he began. "Optimus sacrificed himself to save the boy. The boy sacrificed himself to bring Optimus back. Optimus then offlined the Fallen after Jetfire sacrificed himself. I already did the sacrifice thing once to save Ratchet and Ironhide from Megatron. Not something I'm looking forward to repeating, just so we're clear on that. And you sacrificed yourself to stop Starscream and save the humans on that plane."

Now that almost caused her to whip around. "Is that what you think this is about? Sacrifices?"

"It's the only logical link between the four of us. Other than our interactions with the boy."

"But I didn't have any interactions with Witwicky until he… he started leaking this power like a freaking sieve," she waved a hand in the air in exasperation, at a loss as to how to explain it. "Then it was my spark that went nuts for it, not me. I never even touched him."

Jazz turned his head, gazing across at her. "Did you touch the energy?"

She shrugged her shoulders uncomfortable. "It's not like I had a choice. I was on auto-pilot, it felt like. Just… drawn to that energy like it was—"

"Like it was your life-force incarnate," Jazz finished grimly.

"Yeah" she swallowed hard. "Yeah, just like that. Why? How did you know?"

"Cuz I've only felt that once before in my existence, and that was when Sam was holding the All-Spark cube at the battle of Mission City."

"Are you saying it reacted to him in some way?"

"Not in some way, baby girl. It reacted to him in the _right_ way. Like it was waiting for him to do something, but he didn't know what that something was. We all felt it in our sparks, but were powerless to investigate further. Not with Megatron bent on offlining us and half of Mission City."

"So you're saying that he did this on purpose?" Phoenix asked, the outrage plain in her voice. "He purposefully pulled me here? Why would he do that?"

Jazz shook his head. "Not you, lil sis. But your spark."

She leapt away from him at that, eyes wide and hands clenched into trembling fists. Rage filled her, an uncontrollable conflagration that nearly burned her insides to slag. Not you, lil sis. But your spark. The words echoed in her head and merged with the constant droaning of 'you were not foreseen' until the chorus threatened to rend her sanity into shreds. She thought of Ratchet, of Optimus and Arcee, of their placating words as to why she wasn't allowed to fully join the Autobot cause.

You were not foreseen. That had nothing to do with the woman she was, but the spark she carried. But they seemed to forget that the woman and the spark were now inseparable. One could not exist without the other. One was not in harmony anymore without the other. One could not love and laugh and be… one soul… without the other. And the notion that only her spark was called and not the whole of her? Unacceptable.

Just like this whole being-ripped-from-reality-and-into-the-Matrix-at-someone-else's-whim was unacceptable.

"No. No, I'm done with this. Do you hear me?" she shouted at the flickering light. "I'm done with this. _Slaggin' DONE_!"

"_**You were not foreseen." **_The words rained down on her like liquid iron, heavy and thick and so unbelievably cold.

"Oh shut up with that!" she yelled right back, ignoring the way the darkness took on the feel of liquid ice once more. Ignoring the way the light ceased to flicker, the way it took an almost frighteningly still quality. "All you've done since I got here was threaten me with that. Well, I'm over trying to understand it and I'm finished trying to play nice. I wasn't foreseen? My spark wasn't foreseen? Well get over it. I'm here. _We're_ here! _My_ spark is part of_ me! I AM PHOENIX. _Like it or not, I'm not going to roll over and play dead just because you're afraid of what that means."

"Phoenix…"

One hand lifted sharply, a gesture for Jazz to stop. "Oh no," she said, her voice deadly soft. The spark within her raced, filling her body with an energy she had never known before. Anger pumped in that energy, a thrilling delicious sensation of unity in this decision, in this action. "Don't even start, Jazz. I'm going to say my peace this time. I'm tired of tip-toeing through the freaking tulips for these guys."

"My ancestors," she continued boldly, formally, using her best intimidating voice. One honed from years in the Senate. "I address you as Phoenix, a full member of the Cybertronian race. I stake my claim here and now that I am one being, one full unit of personality. If you call my spark, then you call me, too."

The lightning returned in a fury of electricity that forked like an electrical storm on crack. She ignored it, pressed on. "You don't get to force me out. Lydia DeMarco died, sacrificed herself so that others would live, just like Sam did for Optimus, and Optimus for others, and so on and so forth. Life is life; it doesn't matter if it's Cybertronian or human. It's precious and beautiful and deserves to choose its own course. I deserve that same courtesy."

Cold white light roared from the center of that tiny star, wind strong enough to lift her off her feet pouring from the deceptively small star. She was blown backward, slamming into Jazz's chest. His arms wrapped around her, holding her as he dug his foot pads into the dark beneath them, trying to stand firm against the storm. Lightning hit them both, striking her in the arm and leg. The grunts of pain from her spark-brother let her know that he'd taken hits as well, though she could not see them.

And then the little point of light exploded outward, swallowing them both, and her vision was awash in white nothingness.

"_**You were not foreseen,**_**"** a single voice boomed around her, sounding more reasonable than the last… and somehow filled with resigned sadness. _**"You were not foreseen as you had yet to choose your destiny. Until now. Samuel Witwicky was foreseen to save two words. But you, Phoenix of the Darkness, you are foreseen to destroy two worlds."**_

She screamed.


	41. Chapter 41 Exposure

A/N: ::peeks around the corner:: Please don't be mad with me. I know I have been gone for a really long time. Life has conspired to keep me all tied up with no time to write lately. I hope this latest chapter doesn't disappoint too much. I feel a little rusty in writing. But I wanted to take the time to thank everyone who will read this/continues to follow the story of Lydia and Ratchet, and the tangled web of life around them at Diego Garcia. I read every review and cherish them all. Seriously, thank you for taking the time to review. This story gets better with the feedback you give!

Speaking of reviews, I wanted to take a moment to address a concern that was posed to me by more than a few devoted and beloved fans: I state for the record that _**t**__**his story will not end on a sad note. **_This story is _**not**_ one of those that ends with everyone dying. I personally hate stories that end that way and prefer to read stories with a happy-ish ending. This will not end badly, however there will be many twists and turns before our fave characters find the bright light at the end of the dark road. Be patient and enjoy the ride. I promise it will be worth it. :)

I want to thank my betas: Razorgaze and Hummergrey. Their work is amazing both in editing work and in writing. If you haven't already, please check out their stories. I have the links in my profile page.

Music for this chapter:  
You haven't seen the last of me - Cher  
Against all odds - Phil Colins  
Bulls on Parade - Rage Against the Machine  
Suicide Note - Johnette Napolitano

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. All else is purely fun and I'm not making any money from this. Please don't sue!

As always, AJ, this is for you...

* * *

The fury boiled in her blood, racing through organic tissues and cybertronian circuitry alike. Already Ratchet had yelled through their bond, ordering her to calm her systems less she overheat and blow something.

Twice, the giant metal love of her life had threatened to stasis lock her if she continued silently raging this way. And twice she had pointedly ignored him, slamming so many emotional doors between them that it seemed unlikely that she'd ever be able to open them all again. Which was utter crap, she thought with a sharp smirk on her lips. His stubbornness alone was powerful enough to shatter entire planets if channeled into destructive energies. Add her own willfulness into that mix and…well, there weren't enough doors in the known galaxy to keep them apart if they wanted to be together.

And it wasn't that she didn't want to see the proverbial other half of her spark. If anything, she wanted - _needed_ - him right in front of her, just someone to listen as she screamed her frustrations, her agonies, and her outright fury at her current situation. Ratchet would understand it all as no other physical being could, and together they'd work through the problem and find a solution.

But he couldn't leave the med bay right now. And she couldn't simply sit in their new quarters and patiently wait for him. Waiting was never her strong suit, and as far as she was concerned the virtue of patience only applied when lining up a target to blow away.

"Destroyer of two worlds," she fumed quietly, practically stomping across the metal football field-sized structure that served as Prowl's desk. "I'd dearly love to get my hands around their spark-chambers right this minute. Then I'd show them the destroyer of two worlds. Who the hell do they think they are, undermining all I'd sacrificed trying to save their—"

"They are the Ancient Primes," Prowl cut in, not bothering to glance away from the many screens on the wall. "And they have earned the right to question your existence the moment you became one of us. Perhaps it is your natural response of violence that concerned them."

She almost whirled around on the Autobot Second-in-Command, her tongue forming words that would more than strain the friendship between them. if uttered aloud. Teeth clamped down on the fleshy object in question, so much so that she could taste blood. Blood that should have tasted like old pennies left out in the sun, all coppery and filled with organic proteins. It was only a slight shock that the fluid that touched her pallet had a sharp, almost electrical tang to it now. Not quite organic anymore, and not precisely pure energon either.

This time Prowl slanted a glance in her direction, a frown creasing his metal features. "You should be in med bay, if you are unable to run your self preservation protocols. .Injuring yourself is not conductive to our mission and I cannot allow you to endanger Ratchet and those relying on him," he said simply and his tone ensured that the statement wasn't a request.

Phoenix turned away, continuing to pace the length of his desk, breaking stride only when his huge fingers moved in her direction to trigger another portion of the touch-compliant desktop. It was a new gift from Wheeljack, a touch-activated work surface based on the human touch-screen devices. She snorted slightly, a tiny bit of amusement surfacing in the maze of her dark fury. Wheeljack had only created the desk after becoming enamored with Sam's new iPad. It had never occurred to the inventor to create a device requiring complete external tactile response to operate, given how the entire Cybetronian race could generate their own version of an interweb and share information literally at the speed of thought.

But the notion of near 'telepathy' had made many humans uncomfortable, Director Galloway being one of the first to openly voice the suspicion that it kept their true purposes hidden. Therefore Opitumus had asked the rest of his kind to use datapads with actual buttons while performing work around the humans (personal work or conversations were another matter entirely). Sam's iPad had been like handing Wheeljack a license for creativity. Still, she had to reflect, it was a nice change from weapons, which made the inventor much happier. It was an even nicer thought that the energy source used to power the desk was less likely to explode, implode, or backfire while in use.

And yet she couldn't quite suppress the nagging fear that came with walking across one of Wheeljack's inventions. It really _could_ blow up at any moment, or shock her, or catch fire… or any number of things that most of his prototypes tended to do. He claimed it was due to inferior human building materials, though many Autobots privately told their favored humans that Wheeljack had been 'accidentally' blowing things up since his spark was placed in its second frame. Ratchet's opinion on the matter wasn't repeatable in public, even removing the profanities.

Prowl arched an optic ridge, and she realized he'd caught that slight tremor of fear in her. She'd bet good money that he'd totally misinterpreted its meaning, too. The images of Joshua and the brig instantly blinked off the screen at his silent command.

"I'm fine," she growled, hands balling into fists at her side as she completed another lap around the edge of his desk. How could she explain her frustrations to the one mech least influenced by emotion?

If an Autobot could scowl, she was certain Prowl would have. "You are far from operating at maximum efficiency, Phoenix."

"Moonracer cleared me for light duty—"

"I am as familiar with Moonracer's medicial abilities as I am with her sharpshooting skills," he cut in. "I shall also point out that she is not a recognized member of the medical command staff. And while I concur with her scans that you are physically operational, they cannot determine your mental state. I doubt highly that you are 'fine' as you state."

The glance she shot at him from over her shoulder could have bored holes in solid steel. He ignored it, not even a wing door twitching. "Are you throwing me off this team?" she asked, voice too calm. Too smooth. Almost daring him, giving her an excuse to vent her ire somewhere, on someone...

He met her stare with a powerful one of his own. "Protocol dictates that I assess any deviation in team member behavior. As you are cleared for light duty, I will not overwrite the medical analysis and send you to your quarters for internal scans and recharge. However, I will state—as your friend—that after the ordeal of this morning, it is my opinion that you should take the aforementioned advice and retire."

A twinge of embarrassment tried to climb up through the anger. He was right, she knew. If any member of her squadron had literally gone through the hell she had right before a flying a critical mission, she would have denied them the assignment. More than that, she would have gone as far as to hand-cuffing them to their beds if necessary, effectively grounding them. . It would have been an act of concern, both for the individual team member and for the success of the mission. One glance at Prowl and she knew he was doing the exact same thing.

Phoenix buried that hint of shame before it showed on her features, but not before a ghostly ribbon of satisfaction wormed its way through the mental barriers she'd put between herself and her mate.

_He's right, and you know it. _Ratchet put in, not even bothering to apologize for eavesdropping. _Mission wise he needs you, personally he cares. We all do. But you are not fit for duty. We all know that, too._

_Back off, Grumpy. I told you I wasn't talking to you right now._

The growl that answered back normally would have sent most mechs fleeing in the other direction. _I'd chain you to your berth—_

_Kinky. _She snapped back sharply._ Our quarters or med bay berths?_

_Slag it! I'm not talking to you as your mate, Phoenix. Restrain you as if I had the option—_

—_which you don't—_

—_and make sure you never even saw the word 'duty,' nevertheless use it as an excuse. _

_Dammit, I'm fine!_

_Really? I didn't realize you'd been promoted to Chief Medical Officer and had the authority to make that declaration. I've pulled Ironhide from duty, even a Prime if they needed it. Do not think you are an exception. I've locked down your Cybertronian parts. Do not give me a reason to lock down your organic side._

She threw up her hands, not caring that Prowl and the others in his office weren't privy to the silent argument. _I'm __**not**__ having this conversation with you right now. I'm __**not**__ going back to our quarters to wait helplessly. I'm __**not**__ going to med bay for another scan like some new puzzle toy for all of you to try and figure out. And I'm sure as Primus __**not**__ going to cower behind my injuries. __**For any reason!**__ I've told you before that I'm tired of being weak and scared. And no amount of prophetic warning from any Prime – Ancient or otherwise – is going to make me back down. I'm a warrior regardless of rank or lack thereof. I'm capable, and you're going to have to get used to it, beloved!_

The use of the word beloved wasn't lost on either of them, and while it softened the anger that radiated from her mate, it did little to remove the steel from his tone. _Even warriors bend, spark of my life. And when I'm finished with Jolt and Kup, you'll find out just how much they do._

His voice faded from her mind, buried again beneath the layers of emotional distance they'd put between themselves. She felt empty all of a sudden, like a drained glass discarded to the side, without the comforting pulse of his thoughts so clear. It was always that way when their connection severed, and like a blow to her heart.

"Could you not do that please?"

Phoenix jerked, startled by the question. This time the blush made its way past the anger to stain her cheeks. She'd been so caught up in the argument with Ratchet that she'd almost forgotten where she was. Liaison Aide Maggie Madsen was standing next to her, and it took another second to realize the question had been whispered so as to not draw too much attention to them.

"Do what?" she whispered back.

"Whatever it is that is upsetting Prowl."

She blinked at that. "I'm not…"

Maggie shot one arm out, pointing off to her left. Phoenix's words trailed off following that arm as her vision took in the Autobot in question. To any other human, he was the usual image of unflappable calm… save for a slight twitch to one optic guard, a twitch that was almost non-existent unless one knew to look for it. Almost on instinct, her optic flipped her vision spectrum to a different frequency. The swirl of energy around the normally logical bot was like a maelstrom of different angry colors. If he'd been human, she would have sworn he was on the verge of loosing it.

"Yeah," Maggie put in, crossing her arms over her chest. "I rather like working with him. Could you, I don't know, try to get along for the next few hours? Just because I couldn't hear the words, doesn't mean I don't recognize the emotions flowing across your face."

Phoenix shifted from foot to foot, feeling like a total fool. "It wasn't Prowl that I was arguing with."

Maggie shrugged a slender shoulder. "Honestly, I could care less which Autobot it was. I only care that your actions aren't helping us right now. I know this is going to sound harsh, but if you can't get it together enough to help out, then you should take his advice and go."

Phoenix took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Maggie was right. Prowl was right. Ratchet was right. And still the anger wouldn't fade in the face of all that truth. "I need to be here," she gritted out between her teeth. "I need to be useful."

"Then I suggest you stop taking up the time of my aide and lay eyes on the screen," a male voice cut in. "Glen, reset to the moment before they start the attack. The answer is there if we can find it. Maggie, I need you back at your station."

Both women jumped slightly this time, turning around to regard Special Liaison John Keller. Neither had heard him enter the room let alone join them on the desktop. The elderly man stood ramrod straight at the edge of Prowl's desk, hands clasped tightly behind his back. While the passage of time had aged him adding more salt than pepper to his hair, it hadn't taken the military crispness out of his posture nor dulled the sharpness of his mind.

Behind him and slightly to the left, Glen peered at them over his laptop from behind his thick glasses. Fingers flew over the keyboard at lightning speed, calling forth the requested information once it booted. The footage on the giant—by human standards—flat panel screen on the opposite wall once more filled with the horror and carnage that was Ratbat's escape from the Autobot brig.

"This will be hard but necessary. We must determine how it was done," Keller began.

**TF *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ TF**

Prowl wanted to offline his optics, to spare himself the horror of watching it again. But cutting off the images would not make the truth of them less real, nor would it miraculously repair Kup or bring Jolt back from the brink of the Pit. He knew his memory core would forever hold the images and the horrific sounds. Worse, he knew what was about to happen each time the images played. The victims did not. "Somehow that is worse, knowing and unable to stop it," he realized. And stopping the images would not ease his own sense of responsibility for the entire encounter.

For while he was allowing his emotions to run wild and pour his spark out to Maggie, this very incident had taken place. The brig was his responsibility lay as Second in Command, his assigned task as Security Officer to monitor prisoners, and he had let others take his place. "Could I have made a difference?" the thought crossed his processor to be blocked by statistics calculating he would have fared no better than his fellow warriors. Worse, Optimus would have been deprived of his best resource and the bot most likely to find an answer. But numbers did little to ease Prowl's pain.

The flinch in his shoulder plates was something he could not stop as the sound of Jolt's agonizing screams filling his audio receptors followed by Kup's cry of denial as the human designated Joshua Eddard turned traitor and helped the nasty little 'Con escape. It was the delicate touch of a tiny hand on one of his huge metal digits that brought him back from the emotional edge

Prowl onlined optics he hadn't realized he'd shut down, taking in Maggie's tiny face, her delicate frame where she sat on his desk in the shadow of his hand. She wasn't afraid of the mech she had seen leave a massive hand imprint in metal. Instead, she touched that same hand. Her eyes focused in on his optics, their intense expression clear in their intent.

_Do not regret. This was not your fault. Hate the act, not the actions you could not take._

He took solace in the fire in her little eyes; let it fuel his own spark to blazing again with repressed rage. He had found an outlet for his unease, for his inability to be truly comfortable on this soft, alien, biological world. Maggie was giving him permission in her own way, letting him know that it was okay to be angry and plumb the depths of his feelings. Where it had not been okay before. Not when he was repressing feelings that had lead to explosive mistakes in meetings with the humans and wanton destruction on the obstacle course.

For the first time in millennia, he was beginning to remember what it was like to have a friend, to be the Prowl he was before the glitch took control of his logic center and the war erased all other purpose for him. His home city of Praxus destroyed, his nearest clan members offlined until his war unit became home and family. His focus narrowing to creating the plans, running the numbers on how many could survive this attack or that battle never being able to see them as mechs and femmes but assets to be coordinated. He was beginning to understand the need for friendship with these organics and the steadying force it provided. He made a mental note to speak with Ironhide later on, and possibly apologize for his somewhat distant dislike of the Weapon Expert's friendship with Major Lennox.

"There," Keller said, pulling Prowl's attention away from Maggie. "Freeze the screen. Right there!"

"You have found something," Prowl acknowledged, the words a statement and not a question.

Keller removed his glasses, squinting up at the screen. "Possibly the very thing we have been looking for. Can you clean up the image at all? Glen, can you add a grid on top of this image?"

"Already on it," Maggie interjected, her nails _tick-tick-ticking_ away on the keyboard.

A yellow glowing grid appeared over the frozen image. Keller took a few steps forward, bringing himself dangerously close to the drop off at the end of the massive steel desk. His watery eyes took in the screen, moving rapidly as he confirmed what his mind recognized in that instant.

"There," he repeated, pointing to the northeast corner of the image. "Someone please bring up quadrant 14 on the grid and make it bigger."

Glen's fingers moved across the keyboard with a grace and surety that Prowl found refreshing in a human. It was not the accuracy, however, that gained Prowl's admiration. It was the fact that Glen's eyes were locked on the screen, magnified behind the thick-lensed glasses that made his eyes look larger and yet his face more… mechanoid that human, his level of trust and confidence in what his appendages were doing.

Glen rarely if ever second-guessed himself when it came to work. A sentiment that Prowl could easily identify with.

"Just what I thought," Keller remarked, a self-satisfied and yet disgusted sound in his voice.

All eyes, including those of pure Cybertronian origin, locked onto the aged human.

"Well?" Maggie cut into the silence. "What is it? I don't see anything out of the ordinary. It looks the same now as the last dozen times."

"I concur," Prowl replied.

Keller's grim smile grew a bit more. "That's because you aren't supposed to see it. Contrary to popular belief, not every bit of American military tactics, plans and operations were stored in hard copy or computer memory banks. This is something you wouldn't have been able to research from the mainframe. Only someone well versed—by personal experience—in the Vietnam War would recognize it."

Maggie's face drew down into harsh lines of frustration, her eyes searching in vain for what Keller had found so easily. Glen simply stared blankly, taking his time review each inch of the frozen image. Prowl's optics dimmed as his keen processors raced the length and breath of the world wide web, comparing even the slightest notation to what Keller had just explained.

Frustrated, he came up with nothing relevant to their current situation.

Keller pulled the laser pointer from his pocket, circling a small, almost burry image half hidden against a wall panel. "See that? That's coded symbol for "hole." During the Vietnam war, that symbol could have meant anything from a simple hole in the ground to a tunnel used for attacks or evacuations, or for a cache of weapons."

Glen's eyes narrowed. "I don't get it."

Again, the laser pointer circled what looked like a dirty smudge on the wall nearest Eddard's holding cell. "Someone was sending our boy Eddard a message. More to the point, someone was telling him exactly what panel to access from his own cell to create a 'hole' in the security system. He knew exactly what to do in order to escape."

Maggie had to swallow twice before she could get the words to come out. "Are you telling me that Ratbat and Eddard had help? From _inside_ the base?"

Glen let out a frustrated sound, slumping back into his seat and attacking his keyboard with renewed vigor.

"That would be my suspicion, yes," Keller replied, slipping his glasses back on and letting the smile fall from his lips. "We have a traitor onboard. Someone had to mark that panel, and someone had to have slipped him the tools to access it. I would take a long hard look at the individuals that delivered their food or perhaps knew that these individuals imprisoned in this area. One of them will have time in Vietnam on his record, or know of a family member that did."

The three humans jumped in unison as Prowl snapped to his feet pads in one smooth motion. They had yet to catch their breath before the huge Autobot was out the door, his metal steps ringing down the hallway.

Keller shook his head when Maggie glanced his way, looking determined to follow the giant mech out the door. "No," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "Let him go. He has his job to do and we have ours. Now, Mr. Glen, I want you to pull up security feeds from up to two weeks before Mr. Eddard and Ratbat were housed together in the same facility. Let's go over it frame by frame if we need to. Maggie, assist him please. Our traitor's face is bound to be there."

He couldn't make sense of it, no matter how many times he turned it around in his head.

**TF ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ TF**

Sam lay back against the sands near one of Diego Garcia's many inlets, listening to the sound of the ocean and trying his best to understand. what had happened earlier that day in the Autobot debriefing room…

He saw her standing on the conference room table, a whip-thin woman with short curly black hair and expensive clothing. She was attractive in that striking way most women in the mid-thirties were attractive, her features obviously Mediterranean in origin. Not heavily, though. No, her complexion wasn't the olive-toned of Penelope Cruz nor were her looks as sharp as Angelina Jolie's. But there was a faint… something… Something that reminded him of good, pressed olive oil and tangy rosemary, of a warm sunset in Tuscany or something.

Not that he'd ever been to Italy, at least not that he knew about. When dealing with planet phasing Autobots like Jetfire, he honestly could have visited half the earth and not known about it. Still, there was something about Mrs. DeMarco that had caught his full attention.

And then she had turned to face him, and the piercing green of her eyes had nearly cut him.

Sam remembered distinctly the sharp pain that started just above his right eye, as if her gaze had literally stabbed into his face. He'd tried to rub at it absently with his hand, but the tingling grew sharper, more intense the longer he stared at her. Wrenching his eyes away from hers had felt like an impossible task, though, and as he continued to lock gazes with this odd woman that was Trent's Aunt, the tingling began to migrate down his head.

He'd wanted to scream, wanted to backpedal from that room and this woman as fast as he could. But the energy flowing around him had held him immobile. It ran down his face, felt like it was boiling the muscles and bone beneath his flesh, traversing his neck until it touched his shoulders. From there… from there it just spread everywhere, a wild fire that ate at his strength and his will until it consumed him.

And THEN it started to get really weird. All sensation just vanishing into a blazing white light.

Again, like that time in Egypt, he found himself face to face with the Ancient Primes. Only this time, they weren't looking down on him. For that matter, they weren't even talking to him. He was left standing in the sand-that-wasn't-sand, wandering around the columns of weathered stone until he found _Them_. They were gathered around a dark portal, staring through it at something he couldn't quite make out.

It felt like the most natural thing in the world to walk over and stand in the center of the group, to gaze into the swirling blackness.

And staring, he saw _her_.

The odd woman that was Trent's Aunt and Ratchet's mate, saw her screaming and running. Reaching out to… to him? It felt that way, certainly, but why would she have reached out to him when the other Primes were there? Wasn't she half-Autobot anyway? And why was there this nimbus of colors around her that looked like fiery wings? Why in the world would she reach out to the human that had no idea why he was there in the first place?

It made absolutely no sense. And still he couldn't turn away. If anything, he found himself climbing one of those stone pillars until he was standing eye-level with the Primes of Yesterday, staring at the struggling woman and the inky blackness. A sort of calmness filled him then, a peace that felt like it went on forever inside of him. It ate away what the fire in his skin hadn't, leaving him hollow save for a lingering flame deep inside his mind.

A tiny, sheltered, bluish flame that pulsed with unknown possibilities.

_**You were not foreseen**_, they (himself included!) whispered in unison.

The woman had screamed back denial, calling herself Phoenix.

Irrelevant, he had remembered thinking. It did not matter what her self-designation was. What mattered was that she was not foreseen. And he felt each of the Primes nod in agreement with his observation. Or was it their observation and he agreed with it? Did that even matter? Irrelevant again, said the voice within the bluish flame. The desires of the one were insubstantial when measured against the needs of the many.

It was enough to almost shatter the fragile peace within himself. But then Phoenix had said something he couldn't quite make out, and the peace won over his confusion.

_**You were not foreseen**_, they all said again. And meant it.

And back in that strange place, standing on those pillars, he understood exactly what that had meant. Now, back in his own skin, in his own reality, he hadn't the smallest clue. But there… there he had been part of a collective whole, a small independent and necessary piece of a greater machine, no less important for his size. And the weirdest part of all? It had felt _RIGHT_ to him. Like he had found the place he belonged after eons and eons of searching.

Which made no bloody sense now!

Sam turned on his side on the warm sand, curling around himself unconsciously as he tried to turn away from the memory. Bright sun blazed overhead, the tropical breeze carrying back the laughing sounds of Mikeala in the water. But it was no good. He felt their need, felt that the woman calling herself Phoenix _had_ to understand what was coming. She _had_ to be made to see. She _had_ to learn what she really was.

And clearly he remembered the words he had agreed to say along with the Primes: "_**You were not foreseen as you had yet to choose your destiny. Until this moment. Samuel Witwicky was foreseen to save two words. But you, Phoenix of the Darkness, you are foreseen to destroy two worlds."**_

Save two worlds? Him? And Phoenix would _destroy_ two worlds? For the love of all that was good, what the hell did that mean?

It. Made. No. Bloody. SENSE!

Him. Samuel James Witwicky. Save two worlds.

Him. Sam. An ordinary boy who wanted only a car and a girlfriend and received a robotic civil war instead. Hadn't he paid enough in blood and pain? Had they foreseen his pain and done nothing? What was Phoenix about to face?

"SAM!"

Sam jerked awake, hardly aware that he had fallen asleep at all, and bolted upright. Sand rained down around him, tossed loose from his hair, falling into his eyes. Sweat coated his body, made the sand stick to his skin in ways that reminded him of that suffocating darkness. A bluish haze glossed his vision, turning everything into shades of sunset. His stomach rolled, threatening to yark up every last bit of the picnic lunch he had just shared with Mikaela—

—who was now staring at him with mingled concern… and a touch of fear.

It was the fear that stopped him, made the warm winds rolling off the ocean feel like artic blasts to his skin. The blue haze faded as though it had never been. Was she really afraid of him? Was that look in her beautiful eyes all for him? It couldn't be… no, not Mikaela. The love of his life could not be afraid of him.

But if she wasn't, then why had she yelled to get him to wake up instead of a gentle kiss and caress like before?

"Mikaela?" he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper against the growing horror within him. "Mikaela, it's me. It's Sam. Why are you looking at me like that?"

She swallowed hard, looked away. And somehow that was worse than the expression of fear. "You were glowing, your hands. Like the Allspark energy. I'm scared for you, that's all." She rubbed at her arms, the hairs of her skin standing straight up.

Glowing? "Scared for me, or of me?"

She bit her lip. "Is there a difference?"

He almost fell back against the sand, startled to his core at those softly spoken words. "Yeah," he bit out. "A major difference. . Kind of like the difference between love and hate."

She jerked back to face him. "Oh, come on, Sam! You can't expect me to watch you die and come back, and then watch you go through all you have. And now, through whatever the hell you just went through today with Lydia… and not be worried? You scare the life out of me almost every time we're on this island."

"Worried is one thing. Afraid is something else."

She rolled her eyes, annoyance beginning to win through some of that fear. 'Now you sound like Optimus."

Somehow that cut through him, sliced through him like hot anger. Just like her reference to Phoenix as 'Lydia' had set his teeth on edge. "That's not a bad thing, Mikaela. He's—"

"Not a bad thing? Sam, listen to yourself! The more time you spend with the Autobots, the less you act like you used to," she took a deep breath, closing those azure eyes a moment. When she opened them, her expression was as pleading as her voice. "Sam, let's leave. Please, let's go back home. Remember what you said? An ordinary boy with ordinary problems. We can solve those problems, together. You and me. Not aliens, not the military and no more pain. You can transfer to any college in California. We can start a life together – a real life that doesn't involve explosions and dying and being transported halfway across the world. Please, Sam, I want to go home. _With_ you."

There was a part of him that couldn't believe what he was hearing. And the other part had known, somehow all along, that this day was coming. It had been his destiny to protect the All-Spark, just as it had been his destiny to pull Optimus from the brink of oblivion. It could be argued that he'd done his part for the war, played his role in fate's game.

Now sitting before him was everything he had always though he wanted. The hot girl, a college education, the knowledge he could be more than the geeky teen. He and Mikaela could leave Diego Garcia that very moment if he wished it. Certainly the Ancient Primes would understand if he wanted out, wouldn't they? He wasn't one of them, after all. They could leave all this behind, head back to the west coast of America. They could get married, have kids, and buy a house with a white picket fence if they wanted.

They could live the so-called American dream.

So why was he now feeling like someone had just ripped out his heart and crushed the air from his lungs?

_Fate rarely calls upon us at a moment of our own choosing,_ Optimus had once said to him.

"I can't," he said softly, watching the light fade from her lovely eyes and hating himself for it. "You know that I can't. I… I need to be here. I'm connected somehow, to both Phoenix and the Ancient Primes. Don't you see, Mikaela? There's something more going on here, something that won't let me rest until I figure it out."

The hurt that radiated from her body was almost enough to tear his heart out. Desperately he reached for her hands, trying not to let his lip tremble when they were unresponsive and slack in his own. "I'm not saying no, Mikaela. I love you. Listen to me, I _love_ you. I came back for you. You're all I've ever wanted, and I want all the things that you want. I just… I can't right now. Things will change, I promise."

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Fine Sam," she said, her tone indicating that things were everything but fine. "I said once you were the strangest boy I ever met and I still mean that. Just understand that I'm going back to the states tonight. I can't… I can't stay here right now. You call me when you're ready."

Mikaela leaned forward, kissing him on the cheek before rising to her feet. "I'll try to be there when you are."

The news of her departure stunned him, rendered him motionless, speechless. He could do nothing but watch as she slowly made her way up the beach, Her body stiff, her movements tight as she marched away, resolute in her decision. The tropical breeze carried the soft sounds of her crying as he shivered. "Is she really?" He wondered, as her figure disappeared up the curving path.

Obviously leaving. Leaving Diego Garcia. Leaving the plans they had made.

Leaving… him.

_Fate rarely calls upon us at a moment of our own choosing…_

It was all he could think about as he sat there on the beach, staring at the water long into the night.


	42. Chapter 42 Unexpected

A/N: Thanks to everyone for the lovely reviews and for always staying with this story even when my life becomes so complicated that I can barely breathe. I apologize for falling short on my promise to update a chapter a week. In the beginning that was a clear and easy goal, but as life has taught me in the past year, you really can't completely plan for the future, no matter how hard you try. So all I can say right now is thank you for staying with me and that I promise I will finish this story. It will not be abandoned. There's too much here to just let it fall away. :)

This chapter is not beta'd, so any issues or problems or bad spelling/grammar is all me. Please do not blame my beta's. I finished this one today and just had to get it posted. As a thank you to all of you who have stayed with me for this wild and crazy ride. :D

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun!

The music for this chapter was a little strange, even for my insane tastes, but somehow to me it just felt right.

Music:  
Please – Staind  
Forever Autumn – the Moody Blue  
Sour Times – Portishead  
I Go Blind - Hootie and the Blowfish  
Bound - Christina Aguilera

* * *

She wished desperately that Maggie Madsen had joined them.

Not that she had any particular love for that woman, Phoenix rationalized as she bent down to examine what was left of Ratbat's former holding cell. She and Maggie had virtually nothing in common. Maggie was impertinent, impatent, and had a really nasty habit of letting her mouth run ahead of her brain more often than not. She was also the type to have her nails done, wear flashy make-up, and have fits when she had to cancel her hair appointments. Still, Phoenix had to grudingly admit that the woman was smart as hell and determined to do what she felt was right. And somehow, against all rational judgement, she had managed to befriend Prowl. Of all the humans to have chosen, Maggie was the least likely to have ended up friends with a bot like Prowl.

And yet, oddly enough, they made perfect sense. Which was why Phoenix needed her here so desparately. Because Prowl's incredible anger wasn't making sense to _anyone_ else.

Phoenix felt her optic spin in silent circles as it shifted vision spectrum, zooming in past what the normal human eye could see and focusing on details the Hubble telescope would have found challenging. Faint fragmentations to the metal housing of the cell revealed itself to her gaze, along with the tale-tell traces of plasma and… unbelievably… human-made explosive. She half-sighed and half-growled. Of course she had known that a human element had been involved in the Ratbat/Eddard escape. Keller's team of tech-geeks had stated as much. But knowing something and having concrete proof of its existence were two entirely different things. The faintest trace of C-4, so faint as to have escaped the current human detection devices, glowed like a beacon to her optic, and she had no choice but to record and report the information.

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to steady herself, and brought up the image in her mind of an old-fashioned telephone switchboard. Prowl's name was somewhere on that mental pegboard, and she envisioned herself plugging in the phone line just beneath his name.

_Prowl?_

Further to her left, the bot in question straightened from where he had been inspecting the wiring within one of the walls. Beside him, a thoroughly upset Sideswipe paused in his attempt to explain just why he had found it so necessary to tamper with the panel's insides in the first place just a couple of weeks before the escape. Words like "necessary" and "needed Wheeljack" and how the inventor had "protested greatly" poured forth both verbally and through the subspace channel. Prowl lifted one white-armored hand, palm outward towards Sideswipe, in a motion for him to pause his words. Optics tinted with the slightest touch of purplish red swung in her direction.

_Better_, Prowl answered, something close to a smidge of approval in his clipped and angry tone. _I am fairly certain that only I heard your communication this time. You are improving on your skills with subspace conversation. As your commanding officer for this assignment, I approve._

Something close to a blush of mingled pride and embarrisment touched her cheeks. How often had she sent a private communication to at least three or four other bots by accident? Too many times to count, that's how many. It had become something of a running joke behind her back. Don't talk to Phoenix through the 'channels, the other bots said, or everyone else is going to know what you're doing.

_Thanks._ She replied, forcing down the blush. _Contrary to popular belief, I am trying very hard to learn not to intrude on anyone else's channels. _

_It is not a skill natural to your species. Perhaps you will master it in time._

It was meant to be encouraging, that statement. Or as encouraging as Prowl could be towards her. Still, the 'perhaps' in his statement grated against her pride and set her teeth on edge. She knew he was one of the bots that did not exactly approve of her mating with Ratchet. She knew he was also one of the bots that did not like the fact that she was a hybrid of some sort between the two species. However, he was at least kind enough not to vocalize his disapproval, and even if he hadn't exactly defended her right to be with Ratchet before, he hadn't exactly condemned her for it either. Add that to the fact that he had told Ratchet that he would support him even in a 'bad decision' and, well... It was utterly frustrating, trying to able to decide if he was on her side or not.

Of all the bots on base, he was the biggest engima. And she had absolutely no idea how to handle him.

Which was one of the reasons she so desperately wished that Maggie had been allowed to accompany them to this assignment. Somehow the woman had managed to learn to speak fluent "Prowl-ese" and knew exactly how to calm or argue with the security bot when he needed it. Because it was still fairly evident that he was not 'functioning within normal specified emotional parameters' in this case. One did not need to be able to read the swirling energy patterns around him to know that. One only had to look at what was left of his office door after he had stormed out earlier.

After they had learned about the traitor within their own midst…

But Maggie wasn't here right now, locked up as she was with the rest of Liaison Keller's technical team. Maggie was doing her job. And, as she could tell from the growing frown on Prowl's faceplates that he expected her to quit wasting his time and do the same. Phoenix shook away her frustrations, focusing her mind once more on the conversation at hand.

_I have confirmation that human assistance was utilized in the escape of the Decepticon designated Ratbat_, she said quickly. _Traces of the human explosive compound known as C-4 is present within this cell, though the traces are far to minute to register on any scanner._

_Any **human** scanner,_ Prowl corrected sternly_. You must learn to designate the difference, Phoenix. Otherwise your communications to the rest of us will only lead to confusion and delay. Try it again._

One hand balled into a fist at her side. He was not being overly harsh to her, she had to tell herself again and again. He was trying to teach her. He was trying to help her become an asset to the Autobot cause, trying to help her reach a point where she was accepted as a member of the team and could offer constructive information as needed. He wasn't being a dick to her on purpose… much. Though there was a little part of her screaming that they did not have time to nit-pick over the phrasing of reports. Optimus and Lennox were waiting on their report.

And, said that same little voice, letting anger get in her way was delaying that report even longer.

She squared her shoulders, knowing the motion would not aid in her mental communication, but it made her feel better anyway. _Officer Prowl_, she began, doing her best to keep the snide anger from her thoughts. _We have confirmation that human assistance was utilized in the escape of the Decepticon designated Ratbat. Traces of the human explosive compound known as C-4 is present within this cell, though the traces are far to minute to register on any __**human**__ scanner._

_Acknowledged_, Prowl replied… and continued to stare at her.

She lifted both eyebrows as a minute ticked by and his stare never wavered. _Ummm… thank you? May I be dismissed to resume my duties?_

He vented air in a form of a sigh, his wing doors twitching ever so slightly to show his annoyance. _Your data, Phoenix_, he said flatly. _Your report is incomplete without it. I cannot confirm your findings without the data you collected. Send it to me._

The blush returned. She could tell. And not only from the heat that crept up into her cheeks, but also from the snickering that came from Sideswipe. The younger bot looked as if he was going to say something, and knowing him something harsh and scathing, when Prowl's upturned hand suddenly reversed and came down on his shoulder like a vise. She actually heard the impact of metal ringing against metal and saw Sideswipe flinch away. Even though Prowl's optics were fixed on her, he was obviously having some kind of conversation with Sideswipe. The silvery bot blanched and turned his full attention straight away towards the panel he had been studying.

_Phoenix_, Prowl snapped, wing doors rising tight and high as his own feelings of impatience reached critical levels. _I need your data. Send it now or step away from the cell so that I may collect it anew._

She jerked at the sharpness of his tone, and while she did not appreciate it at all, she understood. He was in command of a bad assignment. Sideswipe wasn't making things any easier on him, and she, herself, was acting like an incompetent fool. She closed her eyes and turned the switchboard in her mind into a fax machine. Quick mental fingers typed in the word PROWL and fed in all the data she'd collected.

His optics dimmed for just a nanoklik and then he nodded. _Thank you. Resume your duties. Alert me again when you have found something of worth. After this assignment is complete, you and Sideswipe both will report to my office._

Her eyes widened. Sideswipe's head jerked up, clanging against the lip of the panel.

_Me?_ She stammered

_What?_ Sideswipe cried. _I'm doing what you slaggin' asked me to do! Why am I being punished?_

_You, _he glared at Sideswipe, _for violation of the rules._ _You know better than to remove any bot from the brig once so assigned there. Do not attempt to cover your actions this time—I know it was you that freed Wheeljack to help with Grimlock's flower disaster in med-bay. Wheeljack confessed to the whole ordeal before our Prime and myself after Ironhide's quarters suddenly filled with flowers while he was in recharge two standard earth days before. He thought it was an attack by Skywarp. We are all very lucky that he only blew up half of his quarters and not the whole island._

_And you,_ he turned an optic in her direction. _You need more practice with communication and following specified orders. You will report for instruction and behavioral modification. I do not appreciate the snap of temper in your tone while under my command. Such emotion does not—I repeat does not—belong in the address of a superior officer, either on the battlefield or off. Am I understood? _

Her eyes met the optics of Sideswipe, and for the first time since she met the prank-playing warrior, she actually felt some kind of kinship with him. They both were going to be on the receiving end of Prowl's bad mood and both rightly deserved it. There was a part of her that knew she did not have to report. She wasn't a full Autobot after all. But this is what she had wanted, to be part of the team and to be productive again. And she knew full well that if she did not report, she would be off Prowl's team in less than a heartbeat.

Somehow, that was worse than the actual punishment to come.

She grimaced as if she had tasted something very bitter, but nodded her ascent. _Yes, sir. I acknowledge._

_Sideswipe?_ Prowl warned.

_Yeah, yeah. I'll be there_, the other snarled. _It's not like I'm going anywhere any time soon with this panel work..._

**_"TF *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ TF"_**

It was near dark when he found her, or rather, when she stumbled across him.

For reasons she could never fully explain to anyone, Mikaela always turned to the dingy little hangar at the far end of the expansive military base when she wanted to be alone. It was the least used, the least visited, and housed what she believed was the biggest waste of tax payer's dollars that she had ever seen. The burnt and twisted hulls of broken cars and tanks littered the massive concrete slab that served as the floor. Wreckage from countless numbers of fighter jets and passenger planes, from all sorts of civilian and military water craft, made not-so-neat dusty piles in the near darkness. Remembered only by the flickering illumination of bad light bulbs… and the occasional visit by persons like herself.

Persons like herself, she mused darkly, that felt such sorrow to know that this was the place the government sent every bit of … well, anything… that had been destroyed in an autobot/decepticon conflict. This was where it was all hidden from prying eyes, where the governments of the world secluded all the little 'accidents' in order to preserve the secret of their alien citizens.

Her hand reached out, fingers tracing this pile or that as she passed, careful to stay along the designated paths. Some of the piles were four and five stories high, and in one pile in the near distance, a colossal propeller from an aircraft carrier—from the one that the Fallen had personally delighted in destroying—nearly scrapped the tin roof above. It stood out in the shadows, standing silent vigil like a shattered monument among the grave-like serenity of the piles. Every scrap of metal in this tomb was broken and forgotten, the shattered remnants of a giant's toys tossed away.

The humans around the base used to call it the "tomb," the place where all the good and solid vehicles went after battle had scarred them beyond usefulness. Now, most of them called it "the Pit," not really understanding that the Cybertronian phrase meant so much more than just an overblown junkyard. The Autobots merely shook their heads at their human counterparts, referring instead to the area as "salvage duty," pulling from the mounds any items that could be reused in some way.

She found the whole salvage idea ghastly, slightly horrified that the metals that were picked through, that _all_ the items in this hangar were now causalities—_civilian casualties_—of the war that had come to their planet. Humans had died, most of them innocent bystanders, in these twisted pieces of metal.

It was all somehow worse to know that more wreckage would be brought here. More metal to litter the ground like frozen twisted tears, more piles to commemorate each and every life lost, each and every dream of each and every human murdered as each battle was swept under the proverbial rug and the torn remnants deposited here. To be melted or reused…

… or forgotten.

Her fingers grasped an outstretched length of pipe, curling around it until her knuckles were white with effort and her fingers felt like they would leave imprints in the steel. "They were _people,_ not just _humans_," she gritted out between clinched teeth, hot tears streaming down her pale cheeks. "They had names and lives. They were sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, and FAMILY to someone!"

The pipe came free in one vicious tug and she hurled it with all her might at the towering propeller.

"This is all your fault!" she half-screamed/half-sobbed at the soaring, shadow-drenched monolith. "I hate you! I hate all this! You stole my dreams from me. You stole everything! I hate you. I hate this place. I hate it. I hate it…"

The pipe clanged against the giant propeller, the ring of metal on metal somehow swallowed by the buzzing silence of the place. Her knees hit the concrete, her arms wrapping around herself as the sobs finally won and burst free. She wept as if her heart had torn asunder, until her slender frame was wracked with it.

He was never going to leave them. She knew that, deep inside, she knew that Sam Witwicky would never turn his back on the Autobots. There was a part of her that could handle that fact. It was the same part of her that refused to leave his side in the deserts of Egypt, had called him back from the grave with pleas of unending love. Part of her could honestly live with being second in his heart, knowing that eventually there would come a day when the Autobots no longer needed him, and then they could have a life together.

What that part of her hadn't counted on was the fact that, by the time the Autobots no longer needed Sam Witwicky, she would be too old to have a life with him.

Images flashed in her mind's eye, showing her the ultimate hell of spending the rest of her life on Diego Garcia. She saw herself standing next to Sarah Lennox on the runway, watching Sam and Will and all the others board a plane, trying to be strong and smile while thinking that this could be the last time she ever saw him again. Time moved rapidly, and now there were two beautiful children standing next to her, watching as Sam boarded a plane again, determined to fight in a war that wasn't his, all to save a group of beings that weren't even human.

And then she saw the dreaded image, the one where a pine box, draped with the American flag, came out of that cursed plane. She saw Major Lennox walking over to her and her future children with sorrow on his face and words of hollow consolation dripping from his lips. Worse, she saw the image of the pine box coming down the ramp, and a Sam-that-wasn't-Sam following it, a Sam that was more machine than human, striding towards her with heavy metallic foot-falls and glowing blue eyes, telling her that it was going to be okay. Telling her that she would love the new Sam just as much as she loved the old…

She saw those oversized metal fingers reaching for her, touching her shoulder, and she screamed the scream of the truly damned, of the hopeless. Of the woman she could have been if she hadn't wasted her life on this tiny horrible island.

"Hey, hey, Mikaela, stop!"

Warm human hands grabbed her arms instead of metallic ones. They jerked her to her feet. Her head snapped upward, venomed words in her mouth ready to spew at Sam. Who else would know where to find her? Who else knew her as well as he knew himself? Tear-blinded eyes flashed open, blinking away lost dreams and unimaginable fears…

… to stare up into the hazel gaze of Trent DeMarco.

Seeing him was such a shock that she couldn't even bring herself to speak. Trent stood before her, looking down at her with worry on his tanned, square jawed face. He looked so different, she marveled, with his hair buzzed to military shortness and a new leanness to his face. Years had stolen the last of the baby-fat from his features, leaving behind planes and angles of pure masculinity. Even his fingers seemed stronger than she remembered, the muscles of his arms standing out in corded bunches. And his chest…

She thought it was impossible for that chest to have gained more muscle, but somehow it had.

He seemed to realize for the first time that he was touching her, and his hands fell away from her shoulders. He took a step back, clearing his throat. "Sorry. You, uh, you were screaming. I…," he shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably. "I remember that you had night terrors back in high school. There was only one way to wake you up back then."

She remembered all right, remembered his arms restraining her, holding her until she came back to herself, until she could no longer hurt herself from the nightmares. And yet she also remembered those arms holding her in warm sunlight, out on the football field back home. He had smelled the same, warm and fresh, the faintest kiss of sweat across his body from practice with the team. Then he'd spared her a dashing smile, kissing her until her toes curled. Called her his "little bunny" and, donning his helmet, dashed back out onto the field.

She remembered… back when things were so much simpler.

Mikaela turned her face away, trying to stop a new set of tears from flooding their gates. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

This time he looked away, shrugging again. "I come here to be alone," he said gruffly. "Work out some aggression."

She huffed out what was supposed to have been a laugh. It came out as a simple exhalation of air. "I don't see any weights around here. Wasn't that your thing?"

He turned and started to walk deeper into the cavernous hangar. "That's not the kind of aggression I'm talking about." He paused, looking over his shoulder, something passing through those shadowed eyes. "You coming?"

"Why not?" she muttered, wrapping her arms around herself and following his lead. "What other kind of aggression can you work out in a place like this?"

"Mental," he said, not bothering to glance over his shoulder.

"Mental?"

"Yeah."

Her eyes flicked to the many piles, the silent monuments of the dead and forgotten. "How?"

He lead her into a pool of light, and into surprising warmth. A small space heater was set up next to a folding chair. The brighter light came from a tiny flood light at the base of the chair, it's intense beam focused on what she thought at first was a metal box with rounded sides. Mikaela stepped closer, her eyes picking out more details as she approached.

"Is that…" she began, squiting at the twisted, blackened metal. Some of the original paint still showed through the charring, and her eyes widened. "That's the presidential seal!"

"Yeah," he nodded, slipping quietly into the chair.

"Is this… is this Air Force One?"

He shook his head, again leaving his face hidden in shadows. "No. It's what's left of Freedom Flight, the twin of Air Force One."

She blinked once. Again. And felt for the first time something other than annoyance rise within herself for Trent. "Your Aunt was on this plane."

"She was more than on it," he answered softly. "She saved it. Or rather, saved what was left of the passengers."

She thought of Sam, risking his life all of the time for the Autobots, saving Optimus twice now at nearly the cost of his own. "She's very brave," she said quietly, wondering why she couldn't bring herself to say the same about Sam. That he was stupid instead of brave were the only thoughts that came to mind.

"So they tell me."

Again, she blinked, shivering from a cold that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the conversation. "What do you mean?"

"I haven't seen her since the so-called accident," he replied bitterly, crossing the pools of shadows to drape an old blanket over her shoulders. "They won't let me. That giant alien doctor keeps telling me something about stresses on her systems. As if she had a computer for her insides instead of flesh and bone."

She pulled the blanket closer around her, sitting on an overturned paint bucket. "Is that why you stay?"

"Isn't that why you stay?"

The question caught her off guard, and she had to think about it before she could answer. Just a day ago she would have told him that she stayed because of worry for her friends, worry for Sam. She would have told him that she was part of the team in a sense, working to make sure that everyone had a tomorrow to look forward to, not a future as slaves to the Decepticons, or no future at all. And now?

Now… now she realized she had no idea why she stayed. Especially now that Sam told her in so many words that she would never be first in his life. Not until the Decepticons were defeated at any rate.

She shivered again, hoping the shadows hid the glistening of unshed tears in her eyes. "I don't know."

Trent huffed out a sound that was part agreement and part mockery. "So I see he's finally broken your heart. How's it feel?"

She flinched, huddling deeper into the blankets. "Screw off," she snapped, no real fire to those words. "It's none of your business."

"True. You left me for him years ago. Still, I can't help but feel a tiny bit of satisfaction to see you in the same position I was."

"Whatever, Trent," she sniffed. "You were more into your muscles and your football and your flashy new truck than you were ever into me."

"Yeah. At that time, you're right. But I was also a kid, Mikaela. I was sixteen. I was _supposed_ to be all about my flashy car and my football and all that. I was also a kid that had his first taste of love and wanted those moments by the lake after school to go on forever. I thought that there wasn't anything anyone couldn't do so long as they believed. Or at least were _believed in_."

She stood, heart feeling as if it were made of lead, her eyes streaming with the tears she could no longer contain. "So that's why you've been such a dick to me since coming here? You're still angry that I broke up with you? Get over it, Trent. And you've apparently had someone to believe in you all along. Look at how great you are doing. College, money, a career already dropped in your lap. You didn't need some 'little bunny' to hang off your arm like an airheaded nitwit."

She turned her back on him, heading back the way she came.

"I had someone to believe in me, alright. In fact, I had two," he called out to her, his voice strained with unshed emotion. "And now Aunt Lydia locked up in some alien medical facility, and Josh is fugitive from the law. It's been two months since all this happened and still I can't get a straight answer on any of it. The two people in the world that believed in me more than I did are cut off from me!"

He took several deep breaths, fists clenching at his side. "I hate this place, Mikaela. I hate that it took you away from me and now it's taken Aunt Lydia and Josh. I think of how my life could have been without the aliens and… and I want to beat something. We could have had a life together, you and I. I wanted that, you know. I wanted to graduate college and marry you and have kids. I wanted to coach fucking high school football in our home town. Now… now I'm forced to be a solider in a war that isn't even mine!"

He screamed then, a howl of rage and frustration. She whirled around as he grabbed the folding chair, throwing it against the shell that had once been Freedom Flight. Other items went with it, anything he could get his hands on. Hurling it with the anguish-born strength of the hopeless.

And something within her snapped.

She had no idea how long they stood there, screaming and throwing things at the battered wreckage that had become the embodiment of everything they had lost together. She stopped only when her breath came in great heaves, her throat raw and ragged from the shouting, her palms cut in dozens of places from the debris. He collapsed next to her, his knuckles bloodied and scraped from where he had given up throwing things and had just attacked the fragmented plane with his bare fists.

Her eyes met his, the sorrow so raw between them that it was nearly palpable. And then she lay down next to him on the dirty cold floor, pulled his head to her chest, and held him as he wept. They stayed there in the flickering circle of light, warmed only by each other and the old space heater, sharing the old blanket, until sleep claimed them both.

Neither one noticed the two Cybertronians in the far corner who had witnessed the entire incident.

_Man,_ Skids sent to his twin. _Man, this be some bad shit right here now._

_No joke,_ Mudflap put in. _How you gonna tell Sam 'bout this?_

_Me? Wasn't my prank that landed us in Salvage Duty this week to witness this. Why should I bear the bad news?_

_You know him better._

_Do not!_

_Do too!_

_Your maker!_

_My maker? We're twins you fraggin' genius!_

Skids drew back a heavily armored fist, ready to slam it into his twin's face plates, and froze. His optics flicked to the side, indicating the sleeping forms of Trent and Mikaela. _Don't wake 'em._

_Roger that. _

_Don't forget the salvage. Ratchet wants it. Says it's important for Phoenix._

_I'm not as dumb as you look. Got it right here._

Together they circled one another warily, silently, as they somehow managed to avoid the piles of scrap. Once outside the doors, Skid's fist found its mark, but not before Mudflap's foot plate landed solidly in Skid's middle…

**_"TF *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ TF"_**

Her head was pounding by the time she left Prowl's office, her temples feeling as if they were going to explode. Sideswipe looked to be in no better shape, rubbing the bridge of his noseplates and groaning as the door was shut heavily behind them. The battered door refused to latch properly, and the two of them could hear Prowl hammering on it from the other side, trying to pound it back into shape. Phoenix winced, retreating a few steps down the hall as quickly as she could. The vibration of Prowl's armored fist pummeling into the steel felt like explosions behind her eyes. She let out a groan of her own, leaning against the wall.

"That was… painful," she said at last.

"For us both," Sideswipe agreed, mirroring her pose.

She placed a hand on his armored leg, patting it softly. "Sorry about that."

"You really are horrible with subspace communication, aren't you?"

She grimaced, rubbing at her aching temples. She had to admit that Prowl was indeed worthy of his reputation as a tactical and statistical genius. While he was busy compiling the information gathered from detention cell 5A, he had had her memorizing and transmitting all kinds of things. From ancient battle plans down to the most boring of supply request lists. And the bot she was transmitting it all to? Why it was none other than Sideswipe.

It had been ingenious and devious all at once. Phoenix received the much needed practice in directing and supplying subspace communications. Sideswipe received a punishment he would not soon forget.

Poor Sideswipe had had to sit there and deal with her mistakes, her garbled transmissions, her blundering when trying to accent which parts of the transmissions were the most important. And then he had had to correct her – gently and with compassion – as Prowl had specified. No less than three times, Sideswipe had literally fallen to his knees and begged Prowl for some other kind of punishment. Salvage duty or offlining would have been preferred to the mental barrage of unintelligible garbage that he was forced to receive. Phoenix had nearly begged the same.

After he had released them both, they had secretly agreed that Prowl was not only the most imaginative of the bots on base, but also the most inventively cruel with punishments. She shuddered at the thought of what he would have been like if he had chosen Decepticon over Autobot.

She shrugged a shoulder, turning her battered mind back to the conversation at hand. "Most humans would be bad with this type of communication. We aren't really adept at thinking before we speak. Mostly we just… you know… talk. We don't need to think about the layout and structure of our entire conversation. We just know the highlights of what we want to talk about and fill in the gaps as we go."

He shook his head. "No wonder your species gets themselves into so much trouble with something as simple as words."

She managed a small laugh, wincing at the pain that brought. "Yeah, most of us are cautioned to think before we speak. Most of us rarely do."

More pounding continued, the door squealing in protest as it tried to assume the shape Prowl wanted. The sound of heavy treads came slamming around the corner, Ironhide appearing with cannons primed and ready, Bumblebee right on his heels, his battle mask engaged. Again, Sideswipe and Phoenix groaned in unison. Of course the pounding would have alerted security. Prowl wasn't known for making this kind of noise for the hell of it. The two new arrivals stared down at the slumping human and bot, and Ironhide's optic guards rose.

"Well?" Ironhide demanded. "I'm assuming the two of you are responsible for this ruckus. Going to tell me what I want to know or do I have to pound it out of you?"

Phoenix and Sideswipe exchanged weary glances. After what they had been subjected to mentally, a good pounding to death sounded like a dream come true. Still, both knew better than to keep an angry Weapons Specialist waiting. In unison, they pointed towards the source of the offending noise. Prowl's door rattled in its frame as if to punctuate their silent expression.

Ironhide vented air in his annoyance. "Don't move, either of you, until I come back."

The huge black mech stomped towards the offending door, pounding his own fist against it. "Prowl," he bellowed. "Is there a good reason why you are waking half the base, or have you finally blown that logic mainframe of yours for good?"

The pounding ceased, and after a moment Ironhide swore something in Cybertronian. "Back up, Prowl. I'm coming in."

He raised one of his cannons, blue-white light beginning to glow within it. Bumblebee's optics widened behind his mask. Soundlessly he turned and dove back around the corner of the hallway.

"Screw this," Sideswipe muttered. He reached down one armored hand. "Come on, huma—uhhh—whatever you are now. Phoenix. Let's go before Trigger Happy there blows the whole base up."

She climbed into the open hand, holding on for dear life as Sideswipe's feet became wheels and they were suddenly skating off down the hallways. "Ironhide told us to stay put. Isn't he going to have our afts for this?"

"Naw. Not this time. I think he's angrier with Prowl at the moment."

"Why is he upset with Prowl?

"Because the slagger just locked himself into his own office. He pounded that door so hard he couldn't get it open when Ironhide knocked."

She narrowed her eyes, staring up at him. "And how do you know that? I didn't hear anything on the channels."

"That's because you aren't command staff."

She tried to cross her arms over her chest and nearly fell out of his grip. Scrambling, she clung to his fingers. "You aren't command staff, either."

"Your point?"

"Let me guess," she deadpanned, shaking her head in exasperation. "You and your twin have already hacked into Prowl's new channel, haven't you."

He huffed out air, somehow managing to sound all proud at the same time. "How in the universe do you think we stay one step ahead of Prowl and 'Hide?"

"Gee, I don't know," she said sarcastically. "Here's an idea. Why don't you STOP PRANKING EVERYONE? Then you wouldn't have to worry about being one step ahead of Prowl and Ironhide."

He balked at the notion. "What would be the fun in that? If I'm not fighting, then I'm pranking. If I'm not pranking or fighting, then that leaves blowing things up. And I think that Ironhide has cornered that market."

As if to prove his point, the hallway behind them exploded in a shower of sparks and metal shards.

She whistled low as they turned a corner, obscuring the view of what was left of Prowl's office. "Given Prime's orders about not using weapons on base, Big Bot is going to be pissed, isn't he?"

"I think you humans said it best when you said the words: Hellz yeah."


	43. Chapter 43 Promises

A/N: It's been quite a year! I finally completed my law degree, bought a house, and celebrated my 10th wedding anniversary (man, I feel old now!). It's no excuse for being gone so long from this story, but it's at least an explanation for my absence. If anyone has gone through at least one of the events above, you know how much it can consume you.

This chapter was not beta'd, so all mistakes are mine. Though I remain ever faithful to Razorgaze and Hummergrey as my beta's and wonderful friends. I figured I would throw this one out there as I've been gone almost a year and see if they still want to beta for me. ::much hugs to you both!::

This chapter is really long, but I hope those of you that have stood by this story through my long absence will enjoy it. As always, I do not own Transformers or the songs listed. I own only my OCs. This is only for fun. I make no money from this so please do not sue!

**Song List/inspirations for this chapter:**  
Fire to the Rain - Adele  
Better Sorry than Safe - Halestorm  
Awake and Alive - Skillet  
Expression - Helen Jane Long  
I See the Light - Mandy More and Zachary Levi

* * *

There was no way to stop the pain, to end the staccato beat that rained down on her brain like a drummer on steroids. Phoenix winced as she moved slowly down the corridor, rubbing at her temples and for once a part of her wished that she had never taken that doomed flight two months ago. Not that she regretted the outcome of said flight, that is. How could she regret the fact that she had finally fessed up to her feelings for a certain Chief Medical Officer, or the fact that said Medical Officer was now her mate? No, those things she did not regret, not in the slightest.

Trying to come to terms with a body that was partly organic and partly robotic? That was the real kick in the pants, the real regret. Sometimes she wished that all this could have come about, minus the pain.

Her shoulder bumped against the hallway wall as she slowly plodded along. She leaned into it, suppressing a groan. The exercises Prowl had put her through had been grueling and painful, and yet she had to admit they were necessary. She'd gained so much control over her thought patterns, of how to think of her conscious mind like compartmentalized blocks of information rather than a free-flowing amorphous stream of cognizant thoughts. Even now, walking down the Prime-sized corridors, she could feel the blessed silence in her own mind from the blocks Prowl had taught her. Gone was the pressing buzz of conversations not meant for her, and so was the white noise that swirled through her thoughts every time she wandered near one of the Autobots.

It was just… quiet. Blissfully and utterly quiet.

Phoenix closed her eyes, letting the wall and her shoulder guide her footsteps. The neural pathways of her thoughts opened up before her, streams of data flowing in a routine and orderly pattern of colors and symbols. To her right, in the colors of blue and red, she saw the data that represented her life functions. Her spark's power level, her breathing, the flow of blood and energon through her systems. And to her left displayed the flashing mulit-color spectrum of her senses. Taste, touch, sight, smell, hearing… all feeding into a central pool that was the sum of her being. A pool of blue-white power that was her spark.

And all around it like the protective boundaries of a bubble, an invisible barrier separated those streams of data from the billions of other proverbial rivers that rushed by at lightning speeds. She smirked to herself, gazing at those streams and recognizing them as the communication of other Autobots. Labeling those other streams as "white noise" had been an apt choice. Now they crashed around her bubble of containment, splashing sparks like the peaks of white water rapids rather than drowning her as before. And for once she wasn't flooding those so-called banks, either, spreading her thoughts into those other streams where they were not wanted.

A measure of pride filled her steps, almost edging out the pain. Not two hours ago, she would have been unable to do this. Before Prowl's badly needed lessons, the only way she would have been able to see the streams of data in the air like a true Cybertronian was if some other Cybertronian initiated the contact, opening the "door" within her spark for her. Like when Optimus had tried to talk to her and she had unwittingly surrendered her entire frame over to his control. Or when she had tried to send information to Prowl and had ended up transmitting memories of her first girlhood crush… She had been adrift then, unable to control her thoughts and giving everything to anyone that so much as poked at her mind.

The memory of that, the sensation of being so helpless, threatened her hard-won control. The banks that held her rivers of thoughts began to tremble, the waters of her emotions swelling those banks. She clamped down hard on her wayward mind, wincing as she forced those uncontrolled thoughts back into their proper place. Fear welled inside her, fear that she would fail at this control. Fear was an emotion like any other, Prowl had told her, and trying to bury that emotion within one's spark was not a way to handle it properly. Hiding fear lead to hiding truth, and hiding truth lead to lying to one's self. It was the first step on the road to the Decepticon way of thinking.

She had laughed then, muttering that 'Fear lead to anger. Anger lead to hate. Hate lead to suffering. Fear is the path to the Dark Side.'

Prowl had simply stared at her, unblinking. Clearly he wasn't a fan of human cinema, or Star Wars in particular. She supposed calling him Master Yoda would have been lost on him as well. Sideswipe about glitched himself laughing so hard. She hadn't exactly meant to transmit that last thought to him, however the fact that he had not only received the thought but found the humor in it made the experience much more tolerable.

The streams of her thoughts settled at that, flowing with ease along her directed paths. The trick to control was picking one thought out of that torrent and holding onto it with both hands. It allowed her mind to settle, and the thoughts naturally fell into place. Phoenix let out a breath, her shoulders sagging as she again meandered down the hallway. The pain returned with a burst that nearly buckled her knees and she groaned again. Perhaps Prowl was right. Maybe she needed to leave her thoughts alone for a bit, leave her mental shields in place and let her organic systems rest.

Yet like a child at Christmas, she couldn't help but poke at her shiny new abilities.

She turned away from the streams, "falling downward" into the blue-white radiance of her spark. Solid brick walls of sun-baked clay rose all around her as her feet hit the ground, expanding upwards into infinity. Sand, kissed golden and warm and smelling of heat and time immortal, make a soft floor for her feet. The center of the room held only an ancient stone table and for once she was oddly okay with that. It was familiar now, welcoming almost, and felt like home. Here she had played poker with two Ancient Primes, her spark-brother, and the ghosts of three dearly missed friends. Her fingertips caressed its length fondly, almost reverently.

Lifting her head, she gazed up past the towering walls and into the blue-streaked lightning that made up the 'sky' of her spark. It was her link to the Matrix, she knew now, and it was no longer quite as frightening as when she had first encountered it with Jazz. Prowl had nearly glitched himself into stasis when he realized that her problem differentiating between private communications and public was her ignorance of what that "blue electrical storm" meant. Now that she knew each Cybertronian held that link, that it was a hold-over from the Well of Sparks that spawned them all, she could finally believe Jazz when he'd said that it wouldn't hurt her.

Phoenix smiled gently, reaching her hands upward into the air. As if on command, an arc of that lightning shot down into her palm. She shaped it into an oval-like object, thin in the middle and very thick on the ends. The middle she curved slightly, the ends smoothed over until what resembled an old-fashioned telephone receiver rested in her fingers. A keypad appeared in the air before her eyes as she hopped up onto the stone table, making herself comfortable. There was a part of her that was still uncertain why she always imagined this place in her mind when dealing with her Cybertronian parts, but it was what it was and there was no use complaining about it now.

Besides, there was someone that she wanted to talk to. Her fingers skipped along the floating keypad, spelling out the name RAMBO.

His thoughts hit her mind like a mountain, crashing into her soul with the weight of a million years of battle. She nearly fell off the table, startled by the strength that she instinctively knew was there but somehow forgotten.

"Phoenix?" Ironhide asked through their minds, sounding almost surprised. "Is that you? I thought you were running for your spark with Sideswipe."

She bit back a laugh, forcing herself to be serious. But it was hard-going. Most of the 'bots on base knew that she had to be within line of sight in order to use her limited comm. abilities. She could imagine the big black mech searching around himself, trying to find her.

"It's me," she answered, the blue-white lightning turning into a twisting curlicue phone cord like her mother had had when she was very small. Instinctively, she wrapped that cord around her finger. Nervous? Who, her? Never… "Guess what I learned to do?"

The large mech vented air in a snort of annoyance. "And you thought I had nothing better to do than gab? I ought to find you and 'Sides and brig you both for disobeying orders."

She swallowed hard, blanching. Yeah, that was the reason for her nervousness. He was more than well within his rights to do that. "Please, we did nothing of the sort," she replied, trying to force bored smugness into her tone. "We respectfully removed ourselves from a situation of which was none of our business."

"That is up for debate. I'm half a processor away from charging you both with whatever it was that set Prowl off. I've never seen him this upset before."

That chased away her case of the nerves. Prowl's temper? Her fault? "While I am sure we had a part in raising his temper, 'Hide, I can almost promise you that we had nothing to do with the initial burst of it. I'm worried about him, too. But brigging us both for running for our sparks when you opened fire in a hallway isn't going to get to the bottom of this."

"True," he said, as if mulling the idea over. "It would also be easier to brig you if I wasn't behind the bars, myself."

She almost dropped the receiver. "You? In the brig? Why?" And flinched again, this time from the knowledge that he was staring through the comm. channel right at her, glaring at her like she was some kind of idiot.

"Why?" he asked in return, sarcasm so thick in his tone she could have cut it with a knife. "'Cus I thought I would be all friendly-like and help Prowl redecorate his office. Helped him widen that door frame real good, didn't I."

Her face flushed crimson. "Okay, okay. I get it. Stupid question."

She felt him snort again, though this time it was more for show. "Look, I don't mind this tour of the brig so much," he began. "There aren't enough of us right now for Prime to allow too many Autobots out of commission at the same time. If I'm in here and Prowl is having his own issues, then 'Jack has a longer reprieve before his sentence is carried out. So yeah, I over-reacted on purpose. I think even Prime realizes that. Maybe that's why Prowl is acting up, too."

It made sense, sort of. Wheeljack had yet to undergo forced offlining for a blatant violation of one of Prime's more stringent rules. And while every Bot on the base felt 'Jack had been in the right, they also understood Prime's reason for putting that rule in place. But at the same time, Prowl's acting up in order to spare 'Jack a punishment didn't feel right. The silence that lingered between the two of them was evidence enough of that. Something else was wrong with Prowl, and he wasn't talking to anyone… except Maggie. And she wasn't talking to anyone, at all. At least no one Phoenix could pinpoint at this time.

The stone table rocked suddenly, tilting up at a sharp angle for a moment before smoothing out once again. She jerked in surprise, and in both her mind's eye and in reality grabbed at her shoulder where a sudden pain had blossomed to life. It took her a moment to open her eyes slightly, to peer out at the world. Reality overlapped the images in her brain, dual imposing over each other. She was still in the hallway of the Autobot quarters, her shoulder having run into the door frame of her own shared rooms with Ratchet. That was where the pain had come from.

And just underneath that pain was a pulsing warmth, an energy that she knew as well as she knew her lungs drew breath. Ratchet was there, in their shared quarters. Waiting for her. The thought was almost enough to make her hang up the phone and run headfirst into their redesigned quarters, right into his waiting arms.

"I'll look into it," she said distractedly, both aloud and over the phone in her mind. "I should probably go for now. I've got more exercises to do to make sure I have this control thing down pat."

"You do that," Ironhide replied almost lazily. "And I'll do something useful, too, like take up ballet."

It happened before she could wall it off and hide it. The image of Ironhide in a full pink tutu… in the middle of graceful spinning leap, leaked through the conversation. She didn't need to see his optics go wide to know that they did. And she hung up the phone before his deafening bellows at the image could work their way across the connection. Obediently, the bluish light faded, the phone vanishing.

Her eyes fluttered from half-mast to full sight, bringing with it all physical sensation. Including the headache from before. She winced again, muttering to herself as she keyed open the door to their shared rooms.

* * *

TFR *** TFR *** TFR *** TFR*** TFR

* * *

It was his scent that woke Mikaela, a familiar cocktail of faint sweat and male musk, and beneath it a woody almost sun-kissed heat. It tickled at the edges of her memory, reminding her of times before this insanity of Autobots and Decepticons, of a time when all she had to worry about was studying for her chemistry final and deciding if she had enough time to find a date if she wanted to break up with Trent right before prom.

She frowned, turning over to wrap her arms around Sam. Why was she thinking of Trent DeMarco of all people? She had broken up with him before prom, choosing instead to go with Sam. What a shock that had been, to almost everyone. They had expected her to be on Trent's arm, that the golden power couple of the Junior Class would emerge as prom King and Queen. That hadn't happened, of course. Somehow Trent had managed to pull off the votes to become King, and to have Melinda Warren elected prom Queen at his side.

Which had been fine in her eyes. She had Sam to love her for all she was, devote himself all to her. And when they had slow-danced together for the first time, his scent had washed over her like heaven. Clean and warm, like line-dried towels in the summer. And a hint of vanilla to it, she remembered, that hid the somehow sharp electric tinge that clung to him after his encounter with the All-Spark. No matter how much cologne he wore, that strange ozone aroma followed him. Like bottled lightning.

It always scared her, that scent. It lead to so many nightmares of Sam becoming one of those robots, loosing the last bits of his humanity. Loosing her in the process. At times she could not sleep beside him because of that scent, because of the fear it inspired. Because of the loneliness it promised. But the scent in her nostrils at the moment wasn't like that. There was nothing electrical or scary in that green smell. It even reminded her of picnics in the park and little bunnies scampering around and—

Little bunnies?

"_Why doesn't my little bunny hop in the back seat?" _

Mikaela jerked awake, sitting up so fast she nearly slammed her forehead into what was left of Freedom Flight's wreckage. "Trent?" she gasped, grabbing the grubby blanket wrapped around them both and holding it up to her chin.

She was well aware that she was fully clothed still, that nothing had happened between them. But the fact that she had slept next to the man while she was Sam's… what? She wasn't his girlfriend anymore, that was for damn sure. Not after he had chosen the Autobots over her. But still, there was this strange feeling of loyalty, as if the breakup wasn't real at all.

But it was. And she had no right to feel guilty finding comfort when he was the one that broke up with her. He may not have said it outright, but his actions had made that clear enough. If he had loved her as much as he had claimed, why hadn't he ran after her on the beach? Why hadn't he tried to at least call after her with any real effort? Why had he just sat there, staring at the water as if they had been pleasantly discussing what to do for dinner rather than the entire course of their future?

Because deep inside, he'd wanted this. He'd wanted her out to make way for his alien buddies in his life. And now she finally was. It was the only logical explanation. The blanket fell from her hands to pool in her lap, along with her tears. Two tears. That was all she would allow herself to cry, she thought viciously, scrubbing at her eyes with her fingers. If Samuel Witwicky could so easily cast her aside after all they had been through, after all _she_ had done to save his life time and again, then all he was worth were those two little droplets of water.

Trent's hand touched her shoulder gently. "I'm sorry," he said softly, holding out an unopened water bottle. "You want me to kick his ass?"

That produced a bitter laugh. She drank deeply of the water before handing it back to him, as if she could wash away that bitter from her voice with liquid rather than with time. "No," she said at last, handing him back the bottle. "No, that would just land you in trouble and leave me stranded on this miserable island longer."

"Why longer?"

She wasn't sure if his usual lack of obliviousness was a charming reminder of their past or an annoyance of their present. Back in high school he had been this clueless on so many levels, like how he could not understand or seem to notice that calling her his 'little bunny' had made her grind her teeth to powder every time he said it. And now, looking into those familiar eyes, she knew he was absolutely unaware of what last night had meant to her.

"I don't know if you get it, Trent," she said slowly. "But if you were to kick Sam's ass just because he broke up with me, I'd be a real slime to leave you in jail for defending my broken heart. The fact that you offered means you've grown up more than I would have thought possible."

The way his cheeks reddened with embarrassment made up her mind. His obliviousness was charming, if only slightly annoying. But at least he was making an effort to focus on her.

"I wasn't going to assume," he stammered out, a bit of his boyish grin peeking around his mouth. "Last night was… it was amazing to me, Mikaela. It was the first time I could really connect with someone since all this alien bullcrap happened. We didn't even have to have sex for me to feel something last night. I realized how much I missed you. Just holding you."

She fought down her own blush at that, trying to work the tangles from her hair with her fingers. "Maybe that's because we've already had sex in the past, Trent. You made that 'connection' back in high school."

The hand on her shoulder slid down her arm, tightening on her elbow until she glanced back at him. "I'm serious, Mikaela. Look, I know you just broke up with Sam. But if you are going to have a rebound guy, at least think about me before you make your decision. I could have us on a plane back to the west coast in a day. We could put all of this behind us while I finish college."

"And then what?" she asked at last.

He shrugged a shoulder. "We both know that the aliens are here. We are never going to be free of that, or the governments of the world because of that simple fact. But I promise, I'll do whatever I can to minimize their presence in our lives. It's our planet, Mikaela, and it's our lives. We have the right to live them free of alien interference if we want. And I want that. And I know—_I know_—deep down you want the same thing."

The tears filled her eyes again, though she wasn't sure what for this time. She could see her life with Sam, progressing as it always had until one day these Autobots would get him killed. Accidentally, of course, but dead was dead. Sam wasn't Optimus Prime. There was no Matrix of Leadership to stab into his heart and bring him back to her.

Alternately, she could see her life with Trent. A life of stability, with a house and children. With Trent working in some corporation that sent him on occasional trips. She'd have her duties with the PTA and raising their children, dreaming one day of opening up her own bike shop. It would never happen, she knew. That shop would never open if she were Mrs. DeMarco as Trent would find some way to convince her that her attentions were needed at home, or that he needed her to help him win a promotion. She'd live her life in obscurity, always dreaming of what might have been.

She stared up at him again. A life of complacency or a life of terror? No, there had to be more options out there than just those. If this horrible experience had taught her anything, it was that the future was never set in stone and that she was her own person. She could shape the events of her destiny if she was strong enough to embrace it.

And yet…

"We take it slow," she said finally. "We go home, and I get my own apartment. We date slowly, and we see where this goes."

The light that shined in his eyes, the sheer delight that she would agree to be with him, made her heart clench within her. If Sam had only looked at her like that once, just once, last night on the beach, she would have believed they had a chance. But he hadn't. And the past was the past. There was no going back.

As if to prove that point, she leaned in and kissed him.

* * *

TFR *** TFR *** TFR *** TFR*** TFR

* * *

For what felt like the millionth time since crossing the threshold, Phoenix let her eyes drift across the redesigned quarters that she was to share with the love of her life.

The walls were colored a soothing silvery-gray and made of brushed steel, the carpeting a deep burgundy that reminded her of a fine glass of pinot noir. How they had managed to get enough of if to line the entire length of their quarters was mind-boggling. Ratchet, while not the largest of Autobots, was by no means smallest, either. Their quarters were huge and the fact that the carpet she so loved covered the whole of the floor was a testament to how much her friends supported her match to him. She kicked off her shoes without thinking, letting her feet sink deep into the plush fabric. Headache or no, the groan that passed her lips this time was of pure pleasure.

She had to admit that Arcee and Wheeljack had taken her small size into account in almost every aspect of the remodeling. The lighting was installed at various levels along the walls for her ease of use, steps added here and there to allow her to traverse the twenty-five-foot high walls to randomly placed landings. Her favorite sofa (scavenged from her previous office, she was certain) was placed on a shelf-like landing at just the right height to meet Ratchet's shoulder while he sat in his favored chair. A lamp and an end table was placed perfectly, the small shelf of her favorite books also right within her reach.

When Wheeljack had shown her the plans the first time, she'd almost giggled at the layout. Her "reading shelf" as the beloved inventor had called it, was right next to the shelf that contained Ratchet's personal datapads.

In short, she had a tiny reading nook right next to her mate's reading nook. And next to that nook? Her eyes lit up with a delight that had her bouncing on her tip-toes, her optic spinning until it magnified the image as large as it could. Her entire shoe collection glittered like rare gems in the muted lights, each pair having its own velvety lined pedestal. Glass doors with a keypad lock protected her precious footgear from harm, and she was fairly certain that the divot above the doors held a metal plate that could slam into place for extra security.

How long had it been since she'd tried on a pair of her babies? Months, years? A lifetime ago? It felt that way at least. A lifetime ago since she'd worn that gorgeous pair of navy blue—

She cut off that line of thought swiftly, not willing nor wanting to remember the last time she'd worn a new pair of shoes. It lead to thoughts of Janet and… No, she shook her head. It wasn't time to go there yet. It wasn't time to remember the sorrow. Not in the face of her new home, and in the presence of the one mech she wanted to see with all her spark.

Other stairs led to other landings throughout the combined space, placing all her possessions in locations that would not force her mate to tip-toe carefully in his own quarters, but also allowed her freedom to enjoy her belongings without fear of being stepped on. Arcee had even been thoughtful enough to place Phoenix's human desk in the corner of her beloved's desk… and included a tall podium so that, when she felt like it, Phoenix could climb to the top and argue with her stubborn mech-husband optic to optic for a change.

"I take exception to this," Ratchet muttered, pointing a finger as long as she was tall at the podium.

"Take exception all you want, Grumpy," she murmured, a lopsided grin blossoming on her lips. "It stays."

He turned to regard her, eyebrow ridges drawn down in that way that made most mechs scream and run for all they were worth. It was the energy that exploded from him and into her direction that made her grin turn into a smile. Before she knew it, she was running towards him, crossing into that energy and throwing out bursts of her own. Where that energy met, tiny sparks danced in the vision of her one optic, goosebumps rising up across her flesh. That energy was warm and electric and alive, swirling around her body like heat and satin and more.

His hand reached down to catch her up, warm metal fingers twining around her with the utmost care. Her eyes closed in near ecstasy, feeling the vibrations of his spark through his frame, feeling her own thrumming in exact time and frequency. When she opened her eyes again, she stared in to the blue of his optics all the way down into his spark. And in the silence, in that perfect unimaginably joyous silence, there was unification. Their energies and thoughts, their very being, merged in a way more intimate than any kiss could have ever been.

He frowned slightly after that first moment (or had it been an hour? A day? Forever? She honestly couldn't tell nor did she care to) after they stared into one another's spark. "What is it?" she asked.

"Your systems show a slight malfunction in your circulatory components near your optic."

She blinked, trying to translate that into human terms. "Oh, the headache?" she shook her head, trying to focus. Trying to brush aside the need to bury herself in that energy, to crawl onto his chest plating just to feel the thrum of his spark against her cheek. "Yes, I have a headache. But it's nothing. Don't trouble yourself about it."

He snorted, setting her gently onto the desk. Giant metal fingers lingering just a bit before he pulled back. "It must be a universal trait of all species."

"Oh?" She sat down on top of the hated podium, eyes following his form as he moved about their home. "What's that?"

"The ability of all sentient life to think they know better than their physicians," came his snappish reply. "More than that, the amazing talent of annoying said physicians with telling them 'not to trouble themselves about it.'"

She laughed despite the pain in her head. She couldn't help it. "Maybe all intelligent life understand that their physician's time is precious," she countered. "And, need I remind you, troubling said physician with trivial matters is a proven method of having a wrench thrown at your head."

His reply was a snort that sounded suspiciously like muffled laughter. She closed her eyes, letting the laughter flow across her spark, savoring the feeling. It was still hard to believe that he was hers, that he had given his life into her hands and she had done the same for him. It was worth it, she amended. All the agony of the doomed flight, all the horror of the recover time… it was all worth it now. More than worth it to feel his laughter through their bond, to taste it like forbidden buttery caramel across her lips.

Her lips curved into a sultry smile. They were home, she realized. Home in their private quarters. Home where they could not be disturbed, where a mech and a femme could shed their armor and…

All thoughts dashed from her mind as she heard the dreaded whirring of gears. She cracked open one eye and almost wished she hadn't. Her beloved was standing before her again, one finger transformed into a hypodermic needle. That sultry smile melted into a grimace.

"I don't need that," she said flatly, staring down at the silvery spindle.

"Yes, you do," he replied just as flatly. "Or have you forgotten how our bond works? I felt your headache the moment it started."

It was her turn to give the annoyed snort, this time without the muffled laughter. She turned her head to the side, eyes closed tightly and extended her arm. "I hate needles."

"And I hate feeling your pain."

"Point," she conceded, and wished she'd chosen a different term. There was that cold prick that accompanied all injections, and she found herself biting her lower lip like a child.

Ratchet snorted. "You have survived enough damage to your frame to kill four humans and still you shy away from a simple needle. You barely felt it."

She rubbed her arm anyway, fighting the impulse to stick her tongue out at him like a child. "It's a psychological thing. Most of us learn to hate needles from birth."

"And doctors by proxy, I'm sure."

She opened her mouth to snap back something saucy, something that skated the edge of decency given how long it had been since she'd seen her mate. And paused. The pain was gone. Just… gone. No lingering throbbing, no fuzzy effects of high amounts of medicine. She blinked down at her arm as if it were something altogether new. "What was that?"

He shrugged. "A cocktail I created specifically for your metabolism. The medicines were custom tailored to isolate the pain receptors in your head. It was a mix I created for you when you first mentioned the cluster headaches. I needed to fine tune it after your… your incident."

He couldn't bring himself to say _after you almost died. _His spark nearly seized at the thought of it, of what they had endured together after Starscream's attack on the Freedom Flight. She felt it as if it were her own spark on the verge of snapping, could feel the remembered panic in his memory core as Ratbat slammed that piece of the Allspark into chest—

"Did you ever recover it?" she asked gently, pushing aside the memories just as quickly as he had, burring her own terror behind a burst of energy in his direction. A burst of love. "The shard of the Allspark that Ratbat had? I do not remember seeing it in the reports Prowl had me transmitting all afternoon."

Ratchet shook his head. "We think he dropped it when Grimlock had him. Or that Starscream somehow managed to escape with it."

"Figures," she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. "The bastard has the worst habit of destroying good things and making off with the best—"

"You aren't going to go on again about those shoes, are you?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, smirking in spite of the dangerous look. "I was going to say 'gifts,' but now that you mention it, yes. Yes, he made off with my brand new Stuart Weitzman's."

The smirk became a pout and she ducked her head to try to hide it. It really did bother her that those shoes were gone, and then she felt a stab of shame that she thought of the shoes first before the people who died. People like poor quiet Janet Evengii and her gentle smile. Phoenix shook her head slowly, pushing back sudden tears. No wonder she thought of shoes first. It was easier than facing the guilt of surviving where so many others had died.

"AND my Louis Vitton suitcase," she continued, though the heat of her upset was mostly gone. Replaced instead with a cold promise of vengeance for Janet and the others. "Which, I might add, was filled with gifts for everyone here."

He was staring at her oddly, she realized. She no longer needed to glance upwards to know that. It was in the swirl of his energy in the air, the way his spark echoed back the ache in her own. Feeling her sorrow as keenly as if it were his own.

"I'm sorry," she said, rubbing her face with both hands. "I came home expecting to be all sexy and full of smiles for you, and instead I've invited my emotional baggage along for the conversation. I…"

Her voice trailed off as she glanced upwards. Ratchet was kneeling before the podium, sympathy and love glowing so bright in those optics that it nearly broke her heart anew. And in his hands was a very familiar box, bearing the name of a certain shoe designer…

"You didn't!" she breathed out in a barely audible squeak. "Are those… are they the… you found… but how?"

"I'm good for more than healing," he replied, placing the box in her lap.

She glanced down at it, at the smooth silkily drawn letters spelling out "Stuart Weitzman." One fingertip traced across those letters. She swallowed hard, those tears that she had bravely held back for Janet threatening to fall. "Can I… can I open it?"

"Please do."

Her hand trembled, hoping for and yet dreading what she would find. The tissue paper seemed to take forever to move, seeming thick as steel plating at moments and thin as water in the next. And when the first hint of navy colored leather showed through the forest of protective tissues, the tears fell. Great hiccuping tears that racked her shoulders. She hugged the box to her chest, hugged the navy colored leather peep-toed pumps that she had worn the day Lydia had died and Phoenix had been born.

The day Janet Evengii had died.

She had never had the time to truly mourn, she knew. Never had the moments since that fatal flight to express her sorrow for the loss of life, for the death of the woman she had been. Things had been too busy, to vitally important to be put aside for tears. So she had bottled them up, locked them behind the door of duty and honor as she had done all her years as a fighter pilot. Tears were for the living, the old saying went. And when you were in the air, when death was riding shotgun with you, you existed in that state between alive and dead. There was no room for tears there.

But there was room now. And she kicked open the door of her heart and let all that agony pour out of her soul.

She felt his chest plating against her cheek, felt the spark thrumming there with a power that excelled the heartbeat for comfort. Somehow, in her sobbing, he had picked her up. So gently she hadn't noticed. He said nothing, not a word in sound nor in the bond they shared. He just held her, a monolith of strength and love, a rock she could cling to in the storm of her grief. He held her until the tears ended, until the sobs turned into breathy whimpers. And he held her longer.

"Thank you," she managed to whisper through chattering teeth, wiping at her eyes with the back of one hand, the shoes still clutched to her chest with the other. "I'd ask how you knew I needed that, but I think that would land me in more hot water."

The smirk on his mouth plates was all the answer she needed. "You're welcome, spark of my spark," he rumbled softly. "But there is more in that box than just the shoes."

She frowned at him, sniffling, as if he had spoken in a foreign language. "More?" she asked dumbly.

His sigh was all show and no grousing, the pleased gentleness and slight nervousness rolling from his spark belying the attempt to remain gruff. "Look inside the box, Phoenix. I promise you there is more."

He opened his hands enough so that she could maneuver into a sitting position, leaning her back against his chest plates. She drew her knees to her chest, placing the box at her feet. Hands that continued to shake pulled first one ultra expensive shoe and then the other from the nest of tissue paper. And then she found it, and for the second time that night, her breath caught in a sob.

Hidden in that paper was a small velvet ring box. She dropped it twice before she could make her fingers work together to open it. And then she dropped it again when she saw its contents.

A ring, a beautiful shining band of metal.

She reached for the box a third time, feeling like the world had exploded around her and that everything was moving in slow motion. And that was when she noticed the change in color around his left-most finger. A thin band of metal, shimmering in the light the same way as the ring in the box had shined, wrapped around that finger. Welded, she knew, so that the ring was a part of him, shifting with his transform as needed and always present on his frame.

"It is comprised of two different metals," Ratchet said gently into the silence, activating a magnetic component in his hand. The ring floated up from the box to hover before her eyes. "Rhodium from your planet. Metal from the remains of Freedom Flight. And a precious alloy from Cyberton, its name having no translation into your language. These I melded together in equal parts to symbolize our union. The past, present and future. Humans wear such things to show their bonds, I hear."

The ring floated forward, sliding with perfection onto her left ring finger. He set her back on the podium, the finger bearing his ring transforming into tiny clamps. Gently he picked up each shoe, sliding them onto her feet with a care that left  
her shivering with love.

"It's perfect," she whispered aloud at last, afraid to speak louder lest all her words come out in sobs again. She spun around slowly on the podium, light catching the sparkle from her ring, from the shoes and from the tears in her eyes. Tears of absolute joy. "Our lives are perfect. Our bond is perfect."

"You are perfect, spark of my spark," he replied solemnly. "With all your flaws and all you have yet to learn. You are perfect."

She couldn't help the smirk that touched her lips through her tears. "Even my obsession with expensive footwear?"

He gave a snort that sounded remarkably grumpy even with the joy that poured from his spark like a river into hers. "If the worst thing I have to worry about is your shoe collection, I think I have the better end of the deal. But I warn you, the first time I find your shoes in my wrench cabinet…"

She laughed until she could no longer stand upright. And for a wonder, he did, too.

* * *

TFR *** TFR *** TFR *** TFR*** TFR

* * *

"She's finally in recharge," Arcee said aloud, her shoulders slumping slightly.

She had taken great pains to make certain that Phoenix had not seen her following. With all the trouble going on in the base, all the assumptions that Ratbat and that horrible little human named Eddard had had 'inside help' in escaping, and that Phoenix, herself, was some kind of harbinger of doom, Arcee had made it her personal mission to shadow the woman that had become her spark-sister. It wasn't an easy thing to do, she lamented wearily. Phoenix was becoming more and more adept at identifying energy signatures. Arcee had had to move twice as fast to avoid detection, and even then she was partial certain that Phoenix had detected her once or twice.

No one was going to harm her spark-sister, not on her watch. And until they found out just how Ratbat and Eddard had seemingly vanished without a trace, Arcee wasn't going to end her watch. If anything, she doubled it. She could recharge when she was permanently offlined, she thought wryly. Wasn't that what the humans said, or something close to it?

"Good," Hot Rod replied, one hand slipping behind the femme's shoulder plating, offering support. "She needs it."

"We all need it," Arcee muttered. "Ratbat's escape and that… that glitch-spawned prophecy is enough to overload any bots processors. It's all so unexpected and unprecedented."

Hot Rod offered a slight laugh. "You say that like anything related to Phoenix can be categorized as normal. She's the oddest little life form I've ever run across."

The shoulders behind his hand stiffened, Arcee's head snapping up. And so did her riffle. "I sincerely hope you meant that as a compliment. She's gone through so much—"

HotRod raised his hands in an human signal of surrender. "Hey, hey, it was. It was totally a complement. Dial down your defense programs a setting or two. If I didn't have anything but the utmost respect for Phoenix, do you think I would have offered to adopt her?"

The riffle wavered a moment or two before lowering. "No," she admitted, slumping down again. "I suppose not. But I do warn you, mess with my spark-sister and there is no place in the known universe you can go that I won't find you."

"Without a doubt," he replied, a bit of a smile quirking the corner of his lip plating. "Seems like you've been upgrading your weapon programs with a lethal dose of Ironhide's intimidation. I doubt even Screamer wouldn't have backed off from you just a nano-klik ago. I almost thought you were going to shoot me."

Her stare was unwavering. "If I thought for half a klik that you meant harm to Phoenix, I would have."

There was a part of her spark that sank with that realization, with knowing that she would have shot the one mech that had offered her hope of a future, even if it was in her own processors. Her optics started to dim, not wanting to watch the smile leave his face nor the way that smile would transform into rage. Not many mechs out there tolerated a weapon pointed at them, and even less than that tolerated a femme doing the pointing. A sick and sad prejudice that still remained within their own kind, despite the millennia of war.

Warm metal touched beneath her chin armor, and her optics brightened slowly as he tilted her face to his. "If _I _thought for half a klik that you wouldn't shoot me for trying to harm a fellow Autobot, even one as… unique as Phoenix… I wouldn't be here right now."

There it was again, that warm feeling wrapping around her parts and filling her circuits with so much energy she was surprised she didn't fry her components right there on the spot. At the very least, she was certain she was about to fly apart at her welding points. All that existed was his blue, blue optics and the whirlwind of power behind them. And all of that was focused on her, utterly and completely.

One hand rose all on its own, and she registered it barely on the horizon of her thoughts, watching without really staring as it closed gently on his wrist. The movement brought her closer to him, and the big mech seemed not to mind at all. If anything, his face inched closer to hers.

The spark in her chest vibrated quickly, bouncing around in its casing when his free hand touched lightly on the side of her chest plating. There was no hiding it now, that simple fact that her core programming wanted to meld with his. He had to feel the buzz as much as she did, what with the energy patterns her spark threw off with each pulse. She was afraid to look away from his gaze, shutting down her sensors, wanting to know and yet terrified to know if he threw off that same haze of energy.

The logical center of her processors told her that this was a very, very bad idea. This was Hot Rod after all. This wasn't a strong, certain and aged mech like Ironhide or Ratchet or even her Prime. Hot Rod was younger than she, with less than half the battles she had fought under his proverbial belt. The impulsiveness that seemed to make up his entire reason for living was a danger to someone as certain and as slow to change as herself.

But she'd also seen a different side of him, a glimpse of the mech he could be if he survived the slagging war long enough. Moments like outside of med-bay when she thought Lydia was going to die… and now moments like this.

Moments like this… out in a hallway… on a strange alien planet… with the war still raging on around them and where anymech could walk right around the corner and see them.

Arcee drew that energy back within herself with an almost painful whine, stilling her spark in her chest. She tipped her head to the side, watching his optic ridges draw down in a mix of concern and confusion… and ultimately a look of rejection.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, starting to pull back. "I must have misinterpreted your…"

Her hands cupped his helm between them, halting his retreat. "You didn't," she said softly.

And took pure delight in the puzzlement that reflected on his features as she closed the distance between them. Her optic guards closed, and her mouth plates pressed against his own. He froze in her arms, every servo and gear and hydraulic system that made up his chassis silent. Arcee savored the moment, the feel of lip plates to lip plates, marveling at how warm his were, how the faint ring of metal to metal followed by a faint yielding of the same as nannities automatically compensated for the pressure.

It was so… intimate. Yes, that was the word. Intimate, she reflected as she pulled back, her optic guards rising and the orbs flaring back to life. Intimate and… amazing.

He lifted one hand to his mouth, staring down at it and then back to her. "Why?"

"It's called a kiss, a human custom of pressing their mouths to one another."

He frowned a bit more. "I know that. Why did you kiss me?"

A human month ago, she would have taken his confusion and frown as rejection, would have fled the scene and wiped all trace of it from her memories. Now, knowing that there was more than just flash and speed to this mech, she merely smiled.

"Do you know what the human custom of a kiss means?"

"I honestly try not to know," Hot Rod replied instantly, suppressing a shudder. "Have you seen the things that humans put into their mouths? I'm surprised their species survives infancy at all."

Arcee couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled past her language system. "They do more with their mouths than just speak or put things in them. For instance, the kiss is a… hrm."

"Is a what?" he prompted, once more glancing at the fingers that touched his lips and then back to her. "The kiss is a what?"

"It's a promise," she said at last. "It's a promise that I share your affections, Hot Rod. Perhaps I share them even more than I should. But now, in this situation, the timing isn't… correct. So take that kiss and log it in your memory core as my promise that as soon as the time is right, as the humans say, I will show you how much I share those affections."

The confusion vanished, his optics widening until she thought the orbs were going to roll out his face and across the floor. Wouldn't that be an amusing injury to share with Ratchet, she reflected as she stifled a laugh. If timing wasn't right to share an intimate moment with HotRod, then it certainly wasn't the right time to laugh at his actions. At least, not out loud in his presence.

"I take that promise, Arcee," he whispered, almost as if he could not believe the ancient words of acceptance he was speaking. "And I lodge it next to my spark. When the time is right…"

She watched him turn around and walk down the corridor, still staring at his fingers, no doubt marveling over the "kiss" and all that had just transpired between them. She could not keep the smile from her features, and when she stood at attention beside the door again, it was with renewed strength and energy.

_Phoenix of Darkness, my slagging aft!_ She thought to herself. _If this is the kind of 'darkness' and 'destruction' that is to come in the wake of her existence, then sign me up for more!_


	44. Chapter 44 Dreams Part 2

A/N: I live! Well, mostly. Life has swallowed me whole, but it is definitely in a good way. Still, I'm doing my best to complete this story. I owe it to you all to do that. Thank you for the reviews and the private messages that keep me going! :)

Special thanks to Alex Irvine and his Transformers novel "Exodus." Without him and his wonderful imagination, I never would have known about places on Cybertron like "Six Lazers over Cybertron," and the "Plasma Curve" roller coaster! Hydrax Plateau, Crystal City, and even "Maccadam's Old Oil House" (which I found absolutely charming!) likewise never would have come to my attention. Bravo, Mr. Irvine! You are forever one of my literary heroes. :)

Another special thanks to Hummergrey, Razorgaze, and LT-Nightwarp for all their constructive criticisms, support, beta reading and just being awesome. You keep me sane.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, save my OCs. I make no money from this. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun!

* * *

She wasn't sure what it was that woke her this time. All things considered, she should have been blissfully unconscious, curled up against her mate for the first time ever without either of them having an extended stay in the med facility. Yet something pulled at her mind, a glimmering blip that danced just out of the corner of her visual range, constantly reminding her that there wasn't time to dream.

Phoenix ignored it at first, stubbornly diving deeper into the recesses of her subconscious. It was there that she found that brilliant glittery golden place where she and her mate could truly bond. They had started by the lake again, the two of them in human form, entwined in each other's arms in only the way a man and his wife could. And all around them the water rolled lazily, the air breathed its warmth across their skins, and they knew utter completeness.

Until that glimmering blip, that annoying, pale-blue flash just kept getting in her way. Ratchet, with his usual sense of diplomacy, handled the situation by winging a wrench at the distraction. How in the world he had managed to smuggle one of his wrenches into their sacred place—in human form, no less—was amusing to say the least. Though she should have realized that her beloved was never anywhere a wrench wasn't within throwing distance, even when he dreamed.

When that wrench passed harmlessly through the ball of killjoy, they had both groaned in unison. "I think… I think it's time for us to go," she sighed.

"My aft, it is," he growled, wrapping her into a fierce hug. "Our time together like this is precious. We aren't leaving just yet."

She had time to lift an eyebrow before her beloved jerked swiftly to the side, toppling them both over and headfirst into the babbling water—

—and then they were running down streets of metal, dipping between Cybertronians out for a stroll on the streets of Crystal City. Small curses floated behind them from older citizens of the upper castes, though nothing too strong a reprimand. No one would dare speak too harshly against one as highly placed as Ratchet. His caste, and indeed the leader of his own clan, was very close to gaining seats on the High Council. Speaking against a member of an ascendant clan was probably the fastest way to be demoted to the smelting city of Kaon. There to forever gaze at the Sea of Rust instead of the splendor that was Crystal City.

Phoenix tried to lag behind, to gape at the beauty and wonder that was Crystal City. The knowledge that made such a place was gone now, lost to the ravages of age and a society trapped in its own decline. Ratchet had often told her that, in the days before the caste system, all of Cybertron had been built on the scale of Crystal City. Back in the vorns when beauty was just as important as functionality. She'd seen the memories that had been gifted to him from the leaders of his clan. He wasn't supposed to have shared them with a clanless like herself. But love had a way of breaking the barriers between clans and castes, and he had wanted desperately to share the beauty of that memory with someone that would understand.

So he'd shown her. He'd shown her a planet that glowed so brightly as to have been another star in that velvet darkness of space. Things that were held aloft in awe in this present time were as commonplace as energon in the golden age of Cybertron. And everywhere, the sky sang with the crystalline structures as solar winds touched them. The very atmosphoere of Cybertron had been made of music. The space bridges that connected the vast Cybertonian Empire used to respond to that music, timing their opening and closing to the melodious notes, the brilliant light from the bridge opening reflecting from the crystalline structures to illuminate the world. The universe had used the planet like a violin, harmonizing the worlds of the Cybertronian Empire with such music.

It had stunned her, frozen her spark with bittersweet reverence. Ratchet had had only that one glimpse, that nanoklik of memory guarded jealously by his clan and passed down only to the worthy. He had found her worthy of it, if only by merit of his divine love for her.

Still, having that snippet of memory was one thing. Walking the last structure that remained of that glorious empire was something else. And so she tugged back, laughing at his impatience, so that she could touch the walls, hear the faint musical tones that a simple touch provided from the material. Ratchet, having lived in Crystal City off and on since his appointment to politics, tugged at her impatiently.

"We'll miss the shuttle, Phoenix," he implored. "Come, we have time to walk the halls later. I promise."

Her fingers drew one last note as she let herself be dragged along. It was a mournful note, however, and it caused her to stumble. She glanced back in shock, a state of dread spreading across her spark. There had been an image reflected in that wall, a tiny ball of blue-white light. And behind that light had been the image of … someone. Jazz, she'd wanted to say. It had looked like Jazz, hazily reflected in that dancing light. But when she turned back, the image was gone. Instead, a tiny disk of wood clattered to the ground and rolled to a stop at her feet.

Frowning, she bent to pick it up. It was a poker chip, worn smooth on one side from countless hands passing it back and forth. She frowned at it. It was so tiny in her Cybertronian hands, barely covering the tip of her index finger. And wood? What was "wood?" There was no substance called "wood" on Cybertron. How had she known that name?

Again that little ball of light flashed just out of the corner of her vision. And again, Ratchet tugged at her. "Please, Phoenix. Let us go. I want to ride the Plasma Curve at least once before we are officially mated. Before I am too ensconced in my duties to the caste to break away for even a klik of fun."

It was the pleading in his tone, the honest look in his optics, that made her nod. The little chip was quickly stuffed into a compartment in her wrist. And her beloved was right. On the morrow, they would be mated and he would be stepping up as one of the facilitators of Crystal City's medical wing. It was a very prestigious promotion, one that promised glory and honor. It was well known that only the best scientific minds were permitted to even enter Crystal City, nevertheless make command decisions as to the running of its departments. Sacrifices would have to be made to accommodate the time needed to run the department, and again he was right. Tonight may be their last night to act like sparklings.

There was time enough later to worry about odd things like this "wood" and how she had known what it was. Perhaps, when she was mated and settled into their apartments in Crystal City, she would take the "wood" to the Hall of Records in Iacon. There was a rumor that a young data clerk by the name of Orion Pax had recently been placed in charge of the ancient records of Cybertron. Maybe, long ago, there had been "wood" on Cybertron? If that were true, then it would certainly make sense that she had found this thing in Crystal City. Primus alone knew what wonders lay within the structure that had yet to be discovered. And if there had been, then Orion Pax or even Alpha Trion would know. Certainly being the mate of a well-placed facilitator of Crystal City entitled her to an audience with either mech.

But that tiny ball of light flashed incessantly, pursued her as she ran behind her beloved to the waiting shuttle.

Phoenix tried to ignore it, settling down in the seat next to her mate. The shuttle took off with a speed that defied thought, whisking them in moments across the Sea of Rust and the ever glowing city of Kaon. There, she knew, was where the metals that made up all Cybertronians were harvested, the foundries and factories in constant production. It was said that Kaon was the last city left that glowed like a beacon in the night sky. It was a shame that the place was nothing more than a factory, dirty and rusting from the inside out. Rusting and dying like what was left of their kind…

She shook her head. And where had _that_ thought come from? Cybetron was not dying. She was looking at it with her own optics! Yet there was a part of her that knew that thought was true, that Cybertron had been dead for millennia already. And when her optics touched on the Sea of Rust, she found herself yearning for oceans of water. Salty, blue-green water on a planet so far away that it seemed impossible she should ever know about it. A planet where she had been born, where her brother had died fighting Megatron. Where she, herself, had nearly died in that same battle, in that same human city…

Phoenix shook her head again and vented air rapidly. Human? What was a human? And Jazz wasn't dead! She'd just spoken with him the other night. He had been refreshing his fluids at that tiny dusty cantina called "Maccadam's Old Oil House" or something like that. She'd admonished him for visiting that place, even if it was the only place that his best friend, that poor data clerk Orion Pax, could afford. He'd promised to burn the high grade from his system before her mating ceremony took place, and with his characteristic sarcastic chuckle, had ended in the conversation.

"Ratchet, I think something is wrong…"

But he wasn't paying attention. Six Lasers Over Cybertron had come into view, and wrapped around the entirety of the amusement park was the famous Plasma Curve roller coaster. She'd always wanted to ride it, and she tried to infuse the excitement and joy of actually being allowed into the park into the dark creeping dread that threatened to swallow her whole. Something was horribly, terribly wrong, a part of her was screaming. She needed to wake up, it said. She needed to wake up and to find Jazz before it was too late. Before they all joined him in the Matrix…

_Jazz was dead. _

She blinked.

_No, he wasn't. _

She blinked again.

_Yes, he was. And this place wasn't real. They had to get out before it was too late._

_But Ratchet wants to ride the Plasma Curve just once! Would staying that long be such a bad thing? It was only one ride…_

"Ratchet…"

His hand locked onto hers, their fingers transforming and melding until it seemed that they were two bots joined by one continuous arm. It was frowned upon to merge one's coding with another before the official mating ceremony—unless one wished to be part of a combiner, but what upper caste bot would choose that horrible fate?—however it wasn't strictly forbidden like in the days of old. It was just frowned upon. Ratchet, grinning like a sparkling staring at his first real shell, seemed not to notice they had merged their hands. He was too far gone in the thrill, the joy of being in Six Lasers with the femme he loved.

She had to admit his joy was contagious, and it succeeded in beating back that sinking sensation within her spark just a bit. And so she allowed herself to be pulled through the throngs of mechs and femmes, elated that she was finally there. Everyone wanted to go to Six Lasers Over Cybertron. Everyone wanted to ride the Plasma Curve. And only the elite, the highest of the castes, the richest of mechs, could afford to go. Ratchet's clan leader had given him two passes to attend as a mating day gift. She could not strip this joy from him.

_Please, Primus, let us have this one perfect night…_

The crowds obscured that irritating pulsing light, the noise of the coaster flying across its tracks enough to drown out the bizarre clinking of that "wood" chip in her wrist compartment. But the feeling of it clanging around inside her arm was unnerving, a reminder that nothing was as it seemed. She pushed the feelings away fiercely, going so far as to deactivate the sensors of that part of her arm to make the fragging thing go away. She should remove it, she knew, just drop it in the nearest recycling center and be done with it. But if this "wood" was some old artifact of Cybertron, didn't she owe it to the science caste to at least visit the Hall of Records, first?

Phoenix tried not to grind her lip plates in frustration. Ratchet had pulled them to the front of the line, his special passes allowing him and one guest to ride the Plasma Curve as soon as possible. Their hands separated as they climbed into the coaster seats, the restraints clicking into place. Ratchet beamed a smile so huge as to be its own joyful beacon in the night. Their hands met again, their optics locked… and the coaster raced off along the track, flipping and turning them in ways that reminded Phoenix of doing barrel rolls at subsonic speeds in her old fighter jet. Back before the war with the Decepticons had reached earth, before Starscream had blown her fighter from the sky and nearly killed her.

She closed her optics tight, whimpering, hearing the clanging of that insipid chip in her arm. She had to be losing her processors. That was it. All these thoughts, these words like "earth" and "wood" and whatever the slag a "decepticon" was, were manifestations of faulty coding in her mainframe. It figured, she thought with sinking depression. Here she was, on the eve of getting everything a femme could wish for, and she was experiencing her reality matrix fragmenting before her optics.

"I love you," she said, the words lost to the roar of the wind and the laughter of all those participants on the Plasma Curve. "I wish things could always be like this for you. For us. But I'm wrong, Ratchet. I don't belong here. We don't belong here, in this place where Cybertron is whole and Jazz never died. Help me, beloved. Help me come back to you…"

The flashing ball of blue-white light was waiting on the tracks of the coaster, just around that next curve. And the closer that got to it, the worse that little "wood" chip bounced around inside her arm, slamming so hard it felt as if it would burst right through her plating. She screamed, the sound again lost to the shrieks and laughs of those on the coaster with her, as an image formed in that blue-white light. The image of a femme that was half human and half cybertronian. And standing behind her in that light was the familiar form of Jazz. The coaster shot through the light, the blazing illumination sending her programming into fits.

And somewhere along that line, her hand had left Ratchet's…

*** TFM *** TFM *** TFM ***

The last bag sat on her bed, the very last article of clothing she possessed on this cursed military island held in her hands. Mikaela stared at it as if it were a foreign thing, and not at all her favorite sweat shirt. It was a favorite, of course, because Sam had given it to her. The fabric still smelled of smoke and dirt and sweat, even after three years of washings, the rough seems where she'd stitched it back together familiar to her fingers. It had been the sweatshirt Sam had worn that day in Mission City, the one that had changed their lives forever. He'd given it to her in a care package shortly before he'd left for college.

She'd carried it ever since.

Of course she'd made the big deal about it then, rolling her eyes that he'd kept the gnarly thing. He'd called it is superman jersey or something like that. Like he was a football star and this was the jersey he'd worn when scoring the touchdown that won the Super Bowl. He was going to keep that shirt forever, he'd said, and so he'd given it to her as a reminder. A reminder that his love for her was forever, too, and as long as she had that shirt, he would always come for her.

The shirt landed with a soft swish in the nearest wastebasket. Her opinions of Sam's promises of forever joining it in a mental and emotional heap.

It was over now, done. She was going back to the states with Trent, and the two of them were going to try this whole relationship thing again. Maybe it would work out. Most likely it wouldn't, she realized. Trent was going to be the rebound guy, the next big thing after the breakup of her longest and most passionate relationship. Rebound guys never stuck around for long. But at least she would be in the States again. She would be finally and forever free of this stupid alien war. And if things with Trent didn't work out, she'd find herself a low-key man somewhere. Someone that enjoyed the easy things in life like working on bikes, beer, barbecue, and loving one woman more than anything else.

She'd wake up every day in the same bed, go to the same job, and come home to the same old news on the television every night. It sounded like heaven.

"You aren't even going to say goodbye, are you," Wheelie said quietly, staring at the shirt in the wastebasket.

"I already did," she replied simply, zipping up the duffle bag and slinging it over her shoulder. "Sam made his choice. I've been here for three days since we broke up and he's yet to come and see me. I think that's as good as a goodbye as I'm going to get."

He looked up at her again, his warrior goddess, and shook his head. "That's not what I meant and you know it, doll. You weren't even going to say goodbye to me, were you?"

She hesitated, biting her lower lip before nodding. "Yeah, I was. I… I can't do this anymore, you understand? I'm not cut out for this. This isn't the life I want."

Wheelie pursed his lips as much as his metallic face could allow and finally nodded slowly. "No room in your life for aliens, I see. Not even little unobtrusive drones like me."

Mikaela sighed, slumping down on the bed. "It's not you, personally, Wheelie. It would be selfish of me to take you with me. I'm never coming back. If you come with me, you'll be cut off from the Autobots for good. At least until you decide you don't want to stay with me anymore."

"I may be a scrap drone, but I'm not stupid. There's more to it than that."

This time she looked away, twisting her fingers in her lap. "You'll be a constant reminder of Sam," she said finally. "And with all the energon detectors in the cities now, I'll never be free of this war if you come with me. I'll always be watched, followed. And I can't live like that."

"You'll always be watched, warrior-goddess," Wheelie rolled over to the bed, grabbing her leg and climbing up it to sit on the bed next to her. "You know about us. We know about you. You'll always be watched over by us, and your own government, too. Though I don't trust those guys to guard a snowball in the middle of winter, myself."

She huffed out a tiny laugh at that, one hand going around him in a sort of hug. "I am going to miss you. When I get settled, when I'm… when I'm over Sam and this whole situation, maybe things will change. Maybe you can visit me."

"Yeah, sure," he replied, shoulders slumping a bit.

A knock at the door interrupted what he would have said next, followed by a Trent walking in. "Hey, babe," he began with a smile, which faded into a frown at the sight of Wheelie cradled in her arm. His eyes hardened. "Hey, the plane is ready. Everything else is loaded. It's now or never. You coming?"

"Yeah, she's coming," Wheelie snapped, leaping off the bed and rolling between Trent's legs. One tiny hand reached out and caught the sweatshirt from the trashcan as he rolled out the door. "Don't mind me. I'm just a little scrap drone. Best to go what scrap drones are best at. Take care, warrior goddess."

Trent barely suppressed a shiver. "I can't wait until we're gone from here. This whole situation creeps me out to no end."

Mikaela opened her mouth on instinct to snap at him, to defend the Autobots for defending humanity. She wanted to tell him that they all deserved his respect and thanks, from the most powerful down to the tiniest. But the words would not come, and she closed her mouth, nodding instead. She had made her choice to leave. She owed Sam and the Autobots nothing more, not with twice helping them to defend earth. No, she'd earned her right to walk away, and she was choosing to exercise that right.

Once the plane lifted off from the airfield, she would be free. It was what she wanted most, wasn't it? Her eyes moved of their own accord to the now empty wastebasket. When Sam's shirt had filled it, everything had seemed so real, so final between them. With it gone? It reminded her that nothing was forever; not Sam's decision to choose the Autobots over her. Not even her decision to leave him. Wheelie had said that she would always be watched, and she knew that was the little guy's way of saying it was never too late to change her mind.

Trent gave another shudder as Wheelie disappeared down the long hallway. "It's gone, thank goodness. Come on," he reached a hand out to her. "The sooner we're gone from this place, the better. I can't wait to get back to a normal life."

Wordlessly, she picked up her duffle bag and took his hand, the image of that empty wastebasket haunting her the entire way to the airfield.

*** TFM *** TFM *** TFM ***

Phoenix awoke with a silent gasp, half expecting to find herself strapped into a roller coaster. The fact that she was not tied down and indeed not moving was something of a shock. The fact that she could see anything at all was also a little jarring. That white light on the tracks had been blinding, all consuming… and yet oddly familiar. It had reminded her of the last time she'd spoken with Jazz in that wannabe Egyptian desert tomb. The two of them sitting side by side on an ancient stone table, starring up at the blue-white lightning storm that represented her connection to the Matrix.

It took her a moment to regain her sense of balance, her sense of reality. Trembling fingers rose to scrub at her face, to try and wipe away the last vestiges of the dream. She and Ratchet had visited that 'non space' between awake and asleep many times since their mating. It was the only way they could… well… _mate. _But this was the first time something had disrupted that time together.

Actually, she thought as she lay against his chest plating, listening to soothing thrum of his spark, that was the first time they had visited a place in Ratchet's memories. Before, they had always gone to that little place by the babbling brook, the one that looked like it came from some pastoral Greek play. She had a feeling that he let her choose that setting more for her comfort than for his. Sort of like an attempt to ease her into the situations that her new life presented. She felt a stab of guilt at that. Next time, they would go back to that place where they both stood as Cybertronians, a place of his choosing. It was only fair.

Come to think of it, she mused, wasn't that just what had happened? In diving into that brook, it was possible that they had shifted the 'non space' into his subconscious instead of hers. Maybe he had taken her on a wishful tour of the world he had once called home, fit her into his memories so they could experience them together. That brought a big grin to her lips. Of all the mechs in existence, she had never once believed that her dour, serious, wrench-throwing mate would be the roller coaster junkie. The memory of that smile on his face, however, as the Plasma Curve took off more than proved that theory.

Phoenix rolled over onto her stomach, resting her chin on her palms. She stared at his sleeping form, the utter stillness of a Cybertronian in recharge no longer unnerving to her. They did not breathe like humans breathed, the air they took in through their vents for cooling rather than respiration. But in recharge, the need to cool overworked circuits and processors was minimum at best. So they appeared to be lifeless statues in recharge to the human eye, utterly still and utterly silent. To those with optics to see the flow of energy around them, however, it was a different story. Just looking at that pattern was like watching a sleeping human breathe deeply in sleep. She delighted in his patterns, wanted to wrap herself in them as if they were a fine mink blanket and roll around.

She grinned widely. "You never told me you loved roller coasters," she whispered softly. "And now that I know, I'm so not going to let you forget that."

There was a blip in his energy patterns, a recognition that she had spoken to him, that she was awake. She felt him start that long climb to consciousness and instinctively placed a soothing hand to his mouth plates. Inwardly, her spark sent a gentle wave of love across their bond. It was enough to reassure him that she was fine and send him back into the depths of a desperately needed recharge. Though Jolt and Kup were going to be fine, he continued to worry for them and the long recovery ahead. Worry so much that he ignored his own recharge needs to keep an optic on his patients. The last thing she wanted to do was wake him unnecessarily.

Instead, she gently slipped from the little cocoon of his fingers that housed her while she slept, clutched gently to his chest plating. The dream still nagged at her, tugged at her mind as she made her way towards her desk area. She needed to write it all down while it was fresh in her mind. Though it was quickly fading, as all dreams tended to do upon waking. As she'd learned from the last two times she'd slipped into these strange dreams, it was best to have all the facts before she started asking questions. Mentally she kicked herself for not keeping a dream journal until recently, especially after confessing that she was supposed to be the "destroyer of two worlds," whatever that meant. That had caused all shades of chaos, and she still felt like an idiot because she hadn't remembered enough facts from that dream or whatever it was to answer all of Optimus Prime's questions.

She wasn't going to make that mistake again.

Belting her robe around her waist, she crossed the landing to her desk area—and froze. Sitting on her desk was what was left of her Louis Vuitton suitcase. It was battered and broken and punctured with so many holes to be almost unrecognizable. But she knew it, knew every inch of that too-expensive piece of luggage. She'd packed it with care the night before she'd boarded Freedom Flight, intending to leave from the factory inspection in Virginia all those months ago and head straight home to Diego Garcia.

Phoenix took a deep breath, reaching for the lid. It opened with barely a squeak of protest, and that brought a bit of a smile to her face. You truly got what you paid for in terms of quality, she mused. Idly she wondered if Louis Vuitton could gain permission to use the war in their slogan. 'Buy our luggage. It's incredibly expensive, but it'll take a Decepticon beating and still protect your belongings!' Somehow she knew both Lennox and Optimus would fall over and die at the suggestion.

She chuckled as she began to go through the contents. Most of the clothing was ruined, along with two pair of her precious Prada shoes. There would be no getting the scent of char and smoke from those items. Not to mention the scuffs and tears from whatever had punctured the suitcase. Best not to think about what could have been rammed through that tough steel and leather, she shuttered. Best not to think about that whole ordeal. The grieving for her fallen friends was just beginning, and the thought of waking her mate with her tears was simply out of the question. Not on their first night as mate-and-mate in their new home.

However, she was delighted to find that the gifts she'd purchased for her friends had survived the assault.

There was the receipt for the ginormous red cape she'd had made to fit Grimlock, monogramed with a giant "G" in gold thread rather than an "S" to mimic Superman's cape. The poor bot had fallen in love with the idea of Superman one night while watching the Justice League with the some of the recruits one evening. She just had to get him a "SuperGrimlock" cape. Come to think of it, that cape should be ready for shipping any day now. With the receipt for the cape, she'd found the DVD set of "Houdini's greatest magical escapes" that she'd purchased for Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, the set of oversized foam wrenches she'd found for Ratchet (to be safely thrown at humans), the model kits replicating the first space shuttles for Wheeljack, and finally the custom made bumper sticker for Ironhide that read "Cannon Control is Hitting Your Target."

With a wry smile, she set the gifts on the desk, frowning slightly as something small and round fell out of the pile, rolling to a stop against her bare foot. Her breath caught as she glanced down. The item was small and round and made of wood, smooth on one side as if worn from countless hands passing it back and forth. Her eyes widened, her optic zooming in as close as it could. There were particles of sand clinging to the chip—not dirt or char or ashes—but sand. Like sand from a desert. She flipped it over in her palm and nearly dropped it in shock.

It pulsed in her hands with tiny blue-white arcs of lightning just like the little blip had in her dreams. Emblazoned on one side of the poker chip was her clan symbol, and on the other was as single name spelled in Cybertronian glyphs: "Jazz."

And just like that, she remembered.

*** TFM *** TFM *** TFM ***

She had no memory of how she had gotten out of their quarters, and only vaguely remembered Ratchet jerking awake, weapons appearing in his hand. Had she told him everything was alright? Had she assured him that her state of shock was nothing to be concerned about? Had she said anything at all? She didn't know, couldn't remember. Everything in her being, in her spark, was aimed like an arrow in one direction. Her bare feet slapped on the cold pavement as she ran, the poker chip clutched in her fist as if it were the only thing holding her to the planet.

Humans and Autobots parted for her as she ran, many with curses and a few with calls of concern. Phoenix was normally dressed to impress, so much so that many forgot that she was a simple budget liaison, a military paper pusher that used to be a fighter pilot before injuries in the line of duty forced her to step away from flight missions. Her internal comm. was ablaze with queries, the data streams that constantly overlapped her vision calling out names to those particular queries. She had no time to concentrate as Prowl had taught her. It took too much for her yet to let down her defenses and formulate replies. So she filed those queries for a later answer and ran for all she was worth.

The poker chip was hot in her palm, almost too hot to touch. Blazing with energy.

"Aunt Lydia!"

Phoenix had the brief impression of nearly running down her nephew. Her subconscious nagged at her, told her that she should stop and say something to Trent DeMarco, and even to that young girl on his arm. What was her name? Michelle? Kayla? Something like that? And wasn't she supposed to be Witwicki's girl? Again, a brief memory surfaced in like a bubble in the raging torrent of her determination. Yes, that girl had once dated Trent in high school, but had left him for Witwicki. Could they have reconciled? She shoved that thought aside for now. She would make this up to Trent as soon as she was finished.

But finished with what? She shook her head, the tail of her robe streaming behind her as she ran. All that mattered was reaching Jazz. She had to reach Jazz before it was too late.

Two sets of footsteps ran behind her, one heavy with military precision and pacing, the other light and erratic. Her optic sensor told her it was Trent and the girl, replaying the image of the two of them following her down the hallway. She ignored them, feeling like an arrow drawn and ready to release at the target. Tension sang in her every movement, her every step. She had to go faster. She had to hurry.

Giant blue-armored feet appeared before her, a query flashing in her mind so powerful it blocked out all other objects in her vision. Optimus. Her Prime was standing before her, demanding to know what was so important as to have half the base in an uproar. She should stop. She should bow her head and explain. But then that bow string would snap. She could not let the arrow that was her purpose fly free without a target. She had to keep running. She had to reach Jazz. She _**had**_to!

The poker chip in her palm was on fire. She could feel it searing her flesh. She chose to run around him, to ignore her Prime.

**COMMAND OVERRIDE: OPTIMUS PRIME. FRAME CONTROL INITIATED.**

"NO!" she screamed, seeing those words fill her vision, feeling them sink into her being. Her arm and leg, her optic, and one of her ears just … stopped. Any part of her that was cybertronian, save for her spark and its casing, ceased to respond to her will. She stumbled and fell, half blind. Half deaf. Half crippled. And still she clawed at the floor with her good hand, tried to move forward. Time was running out. She had to get to Jazz.

The poker chip in her palm was like holding a branding iron. She whimpered from the pain, from the effort to keep her fingers wrapped around the thing.

Giant silver hands scooped her up from the floor. In her one functioning ear, she could hear Trent screaming for her, demanding to know what had happened to his aunt. Demanding to help her. The girl at his side tried to sooth him, to tell him that it was okay. He wasn't listening. The last thing she heard before Optimus lifted her to his optic level was Trent's fist colliding with a security officer's jaw.

"Jazz," she sobbed. "Please, I need to get to Jazz. You have to take me there, now."

Optimus nodded. He just simply… nodded. Her eyes opened wide, too wide. Her hand felt like a ball of charred nerves, fingers trembling. She was half surprised that she did not smell charred flesh in the air around her. Yet with her optic dark, she could not see that side of her body. With one arm and one leg useless, she could not turn herself to see what was left of her hand.

Optimus started walking forward. "After we reach Jazz, you will explain what is happening."

"Yes, my Prime," she managed out between hiccupping sobs, no longer sure if they were tears of agony or tears of relief. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I have to reach him. I just have to. I have to as fast as I can, or it'll be too late."

"To late for what?"

"I don't know!" she cried in frustration. "I just know I have to get there. And it has to be now. Now… or all is lost. Forever."

**COMMAND OVERRIDE RELEASED: OPTIMUS PRIME.**

The world started to jostle up and down as Optimus ran. Feeling returned to her whole body as his will released her frame. Phoenix flung her arms around his fingers to steady herself, a wave of utter devotion and loyalty pouring from her before she could stop it. He was trusting her, she realized. Trusting her as she had begged him to trust her in the past. She had said that it was dire to reach Jazz's remains as soon as possible, and he was taking her at her word.

He would bring her to Jazz regardless of the cost, because she had said it was necessary. Because one of his Autobots had told him in truth that something needed to be done. He would see it done.

And then he would see to it that things were set to rights, of course. She knew that she would most likely face brig time for the uproar she'd caused. Trent would most likely be there, himself, for striking an officer. There, she assured herself, she would have time to explain to him just what had happened in the past three or so months. But first, she had a job to do.

A job that would be done as a team, as _Autobots. _

She could no longer feel the hand that held the poker chip. She wasn't certain if that was good or bad.

When they burst into the chamber that held Jazz's remains, Ratchet was already there, unsealing the metal coffin that held her spark-brother's remains. She didn't ask her mate how he knew where she was heading. Some things the bond just translated without words. Optimus placed her gently on the edge of the coffin and no one said a word as she climbed onto Jazz's chest armor. The poker chip clinched in her fist blazed like she was holding liquid energy in her palm. She dared not look at it, afraid it would burn both eye and optic to ash if she did. Instead, she laid her fist onto Jazz's cold chest plating.

"Come back to us, spark-brother," she whispered. "We need you."

She slowly opened her hand.


	45. Chapter 45 Understanding

A/N: Surprise! An update! :D

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.

**Songs for this chapter:**  
Carnival of Rust - Poets of the Fall  
Skyfall - Adele  
Party Up - DMX

* * *

Phoenix was standing on her own two feet, which was a surprise in and of itself, gazing down at the sands. Every other time she had visited what she was beginning to term her own 'personal slice of Matrix Hell,' her landing had been less than stellar. The first time she had fallen on her rump in total blackness. The second she had crash landed on her side like some kind of fetal moron. This time… this time she was standing.

Progress of a sort, maybe? Probably not, she amended silently, her eyes traveling over the landscape.

Something was definitely wrong in the land of Oz, and her optic fairly sang with the magnitude of it. Readings that were too fast, too bizarre for her to understand, filtered into her spark, causing her spine to stiffen and her hands to itch for the familiar and reassuring grip of a weapon. Danger protocols, she supposed they were called. Humans had a similar sort of programming, though they called it battle reflex.

And right now, hers were running in the red. Her spark readily agreed.

What she had assumed, due to her previous encounters with the stuff, to be Egyptian sand blew in a wind not of this world. The color of the sand was distorted, too. It was an ugly, tarnished gun-metal gray and it swirled in the not-wind more like ash than like sand. Powdery and heavy instead of light and fine, swirling in little dust devils rather than a streamline flow like normal sand ought to. The sky was all wrong as well, the clouds racing by overhead at speeds that defied the lazy spinning dust-devils. Their color a red-tinged violet, like the clouds were ready to weep blood.

And all around her lay the ruins.

Phoenix made a quick 360, turning to take in the vast terrain around her. The ruins looked almost like those that should have been in Egypt, except they were as gray as the sand and here and there blackened from what could have only been blaster fire. Even the ledge beneath her feet was gray, tinged with black and charred scarlet. And everything was covered with the ashy sand.

Silence was a blanket that cloaked the world, eerie and oppressive. Like the silence of a grave long forgotten.

"What the hell…" she whispered, and then flinched as the words were echoed back and magnified a hundred times.

"Jeez, not so loud!" a voice hissed.

Phoenix whirled, body falling into combat readiness. But the thought of fighting fled almost before it finished formulating. The Witwicky boy stood on the bluff a few feet across from her, looking as shaken and surprised as she herself. Except, of course, he had the presence of mind to continue trying to swipe the falling ash-sand from his shoulders. It was a loosing battle, and one she hadn't even started to fight.

"Witwicky," she called.

"Sam," he replied, scrubbing fingers through his hair, which only showered his shoulders with more of the ash-sand. "The only person that gets called Witwicky and likes it these days is my dad."

"Fine, Sam. Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, do you mind if I ask what the hell are you doing here?"

"I was about to ask the same thing of you. I normally make these trips alone. This is the first time I've ever had someone come with me."

Somehow that little admission didn't make her feel any better. "Same here," she found herself replying anyway.

It was his turn to stare at her like she had grown a second head. "You've been here before, too?"

"More or less," she said, eyes traveling once again over the destroyed landscape. "Only it didn't look this bad."

"Yeah," the boy replied, following her gaze. "I can say the same. What, exactly, are we looking at?"

"A crossroads of our past and your future. Only, you two weren't supposed to see it."

Both Sam and Phoenix whirled around, Phoenix reflexively putting herself between the new arrival and the boy. He was still a civilian, regardless of whatever deal he had going on with her Prime, and she was still a soldier. That meant she took the hits if they were to be dealt, and she got the satisfaction of dishing them back out. But like the initial response of surprise against Witwicky, her reflexes ground to a halt at what her eyes told her.

Jazz finished pulled himself up onto the ledge where they were standing. With his usual grace, he flipped over the last of the lip of stone, landing with a flourish before straightening. His optics met hers, the burst of warm welcoming energy from his spark matching the one she sent out, reveling in that feeling of family—

And then it all came back to her. She saw herself climbing onto Jazz's chest plates, her hand feeling as if it was going to char to ash at any moment from the blazing energy held in her fist. All she knew was that she had to get it to Jazz, that it had to rest inside his spark chamber or she would lose him forever. And that wasn't something she was willing to do.

But when she'd let go of the glowing poker chip, it hadn't let go of her.

She'd screamed, or at least tried to, pulling back with all her might. And Witwicky had walked into the room at that moment, only he wasn't himself. Blue light radiated around the boy's form, ghostly, unearthly. And when he'd spoken, it was as if a chorus of other voices poured from his mouth. _What have you done?_ They'd accused her.

Phoenix shook her head, trying to clear away the memory and the feelings of dread it raised in her.

"What have you done?" Jazz asked, echoing the damning words.

Both she and Sam blinked at each other, and then stared back at him.

"I'm afraid I don't follow," Sam said slowly. "We didn't do anything."

"Not you, short stack," Jazz smirked. "I'm referring to my power-mad sibling."

"Me? Power mad?" she gaped. "In case you missed the memo, big brother, I'm trying to save your spark."

"Does it look like I need saving?"

She glanced around the ruined landscape, the ashy sands, and stared back at him as if this should have explained everything quite plainly. "Uh, if I had to hazard a guess, I would say yes at this point. This place isn't exactly winning any honorable mentions in Cybertronian Home and Gardens magazine."

Sam turned away, stifling a laugh behind his fist. Even Jazz let out a guffaw at that. "Baby girl, I'm dead," he said, some of the mirth leaving his tone. "I can't be hurt any further. I've done my part in the war, gave my best for my kind. Now I am one with all those that came before me. I don't need saving."

Phoenix let her gaze twist around the landscape, shaking her head. "I'm not convinced of that. This doesn't look like any kind of afterlife that I'd want to exist within, and I don't think you want this, either. So yeah, I'm going to stick with my previous observation and say that you do need rescuing."

He pondered that, letting his optics trail over the decaying scene. "Can't argue with that."

"All kidding aside, Jazz, why are we here? I thought all I had to do was plop that energy into your chest plating and presto! Instant bring-sibling-back-from-the-Grave."

Jazz held up his hands, palms outward as if to ward off an attack. "Don't ask me. I'm here because you called me here. I didn't select this destination."

"Then who did?"

"He did," Jazz pointed… at Sam.

Suddenly the polite cough turned into a choking sound. "Me? I don't want to be here anymore than the rest of you. How did I choose it? And I don't even know where 'here' is."

Jazz's optics dimmed, the equivalent of a human narrowing their eyes. "Cybertron," he said softly, his gaze touching the blighted surroundings. "At least, Cybertron as it stands today. A mirror image of that world, held in the All-Spark's memory. But as close to my home as I could get. Probably as close to it as the Ancient Primes could manage as well, which is how you chose it, Sam."

"You mean they chose it," Phoenix cut in, pressing her lips into a thin line. "Sam just happened to be the vessel that brought them—and me—here."

Again Jazz shrugged. "It's a possibility. Then again, what's the first thing you want to do when you are afraid?"

"Run home," both Sam and Phoenix said in unison, glancing at each other and then back at the ruined city in the distance.

"But this… this doesn't look like a war zone, Jazz," she crossed to the edge of the cliff face, staring at the scorched rocks, the poisoned ash that blew in the air. "This looks like it… well, was pummeled to death."

"Partially correct, lil' sis. It's been four million of your earth years since Cybertron was abandoned. Four million years without planetary shield generators or warriors in the atmosphere to deflect incoming meteors or comets. No one to build or repair what was damaged. What the Decepticons failed to bring down, entropy destroyed."

"A whole world forgotten," Sam murmured. "I'm sorry, Jazz."

Jazz shrugged a massive metal shoulder as if trying to take it in stride. Phoenix knew better, could feel the thrum of his pain through her own spark. Not as keenly as she would have felt anything from her mate, but she did feel something nonetheless. Pulses of energy flowed from her spark, a hug tossed towards her brother. She felt the moment his energies returned that pulse, and out of reflex she leaned back against his leg armor. Needing that human touch to bring the comfort full circle.

"Is this what they fear for the Earth?" she asked after a moment.

"Yes," Sam answered, and then blinked in surprise. "Uh, yeah, I guess so. They just said as much through me. I wish they'd stop doing that."

Her lips twisted in a wry if bittersweet smile. "And I'm the supposed Harbinger of Doom that they fear. That's why they brought us here, isn't it. To show me this. To show me what they think I'll do to the Earth."

"Yes," Sam answered again, his voice layered over with the thirteen voices of the original Primes.

That glow returned to his body, softly blue and oddly… comforting. At least, it was now that she could see it with her optic. The patterns emanating from that light were strange, like reading a piece of poetry written in Middle English. She could understand them after a fashion, after concentrating for a minute or two. But they weren't a threat. If anything, they were almost … pleading.

She stood up straight again, staring at the light in Sam's eyes. A light so much like the light at the end of that whirlwind tunnel when they'd pronounced the prophecy of her destructiveness. "So now we get down to it," she tossed out, slight anger in her tone. "You don't want me to bring back Jazz, do you? That's what you feared all along. That's the reason you tried to turn me into a monster with your fear-filled prophecy."

"It is unheard of," Sam-Not-Sam answered.

"Sam did it with Optimus."

"Optimus is a Prime."

"So? Sam could have easily stabbed that Matrix into someone else's chest and brought him back instead. Why is this so hard for you to understand?"

"The Matrix was not meant for that use. It is not a key to bring life back to the dead."

"Then what was it meant for?"

"That is for the Primes alone to understand."

"Oh cut the metaphysical shit already," Phoenix snorted. "You don't get to do this to us. You don't get to drop prophecy on everyone's heads and expect them to run around in a tizzy trying to figure it all out. I get that you have your reasons to keep your secrets, don't get me wrong. But don't expect everyone to starve for the crumbs of information you drop from your table. In case you missed the memo, pals, we aren't exactly operating on Cybertronian-only wavelengths anymore. There's another whole world hanging in the balance now."

The energy emanating from Jazz was a cross between utter astonishment, outright horror and startled approval. She had the impression that if his face plates were as articulate as human muscles, his face would have carried the expression of someone gaping at a person telling the Pope that he was full of crap.

And _agreeing_ with him on it.

The Sam-that-was-not-Sam shrugged his shoulders. "And thusly it begins. Already to turn away from the history of your people, and already you have a follower. Our ways will be destroyed by the things you will do, Phoenix of the Omega Lykaon clan."

Her mouth fell open. "You mean if I bring back Jazz, I'm going to somehow influence all the remaining Cybertronians to listen to me and not to you? Seriously, are you understanding the words coming out of your—I mean _Sam's_—mouth? I'm just one person."

"You are a fusion of past and future, Phoenix. Aptly named for you have risen to life through death, and you will tread upon the ashes of our past on your way to your future."

Phoenix shook her head, feeling helpless and angry all at once. "So I have to choose then. I have to let Jazz die to preserve your way of life. Or I can bring Jazz back and watch all others turn away from their previous beliefs that the Primes are all knowing and all powerful?"

Sam-Not-Sam considered that a moment before nodding.

"Screw your beliefs then."

Even Jazz blinked hard at that. "Lil Sis, you don't—"

"Don't what?" She rounded on him, her anger blazing, her spark nearly demanding her hands to transform into weapons of destruction. "Don't get the desire to let other people choose for themselves what they wish to believe in? Have you learned nothing from us humans at all? I get that you are scared. I get that your race—our race I should say—is dying. But that doesn't mean you get to hold the entire group hostage with your fear of what they may become in the future. Yes, I said that!"

She whirled onto the Primes. "You are afraid. You fear what will happen because of people like me. _Hybrids_. Not quite human and not quite Cybertronian. You fear that I am the future of both our races. And even if that comes to pass, don't you think that everyone should have a chance to decide for themselves what they want to believe? Isn't that why the All-Spark gave me the spark in my chest? Isn't that why I now hold a spark in my hands?"

She glanced down at the glimmering power, so like a star in her cupped palms. "Optimus said it himself. Freedom is every sentient's right. And yes, if I bring Jazz back, things will change. But they won't die. Beliefs and values won't go away. They'll simply… transform. And aren't you guys the ones that wrote the book on things that transform?"

A thought occurred to her then, something so simple that she was a little shocked that she hadn't thought of it before. She glanced down at that cupped energy in her palms and stepped over to Sam.

"Here, take it. I make a gift of it to you. If you think so much harm will come, if you are absolutely certain that your people are not ready for someone not a Prime to come back from the dead, then you decide. I honor the Primes and what they have done for me as a spark-carrying member of the race. I honor the Primes for their sacrifices to protect Earth in the past. I make a gift of this to honor their wisdom. I let _them_ choose if Jazz lives or remains dead."

She closed her hands over Sam's, watching the power of the spark ignite into a white-hot blaze once more. Watching that blue halo flash into being around him. And suddenly it clicked. The readouts of her optic made it so clear.

"I am destruction," she whispered. "I am the short death of a human lifespan fused with the longevity of a spark. You are life, itself, Sam. You carry the energy of the All-Spark within you. And together we are balance. So choose. I am death offering life. What will you offer?"

For a long moment everything was silent. And then Sam vanished. And then Jazz vanished. And then she, herself, just… vanished.

* * *

The hand over her mouth smelled like motor oil, tasted like old gasoline, and was utterly unpleasant in all the worst ways. Her eyes had trouble adjusting, the world bouncing in and out of focus. But her skin, her sense of touch, told her more than her other senses could in that moment. Wind rushed by them, heat from the summer sun blistering her unprotected arms. Every so often the world would bounce and jostle, as if she were running across uneven ground at breakneck speed on her favored bike.

Mikhaela Banes frowned, tried to push herself upright. Her limbs were not cooperating, and pain was the only thing that answered her silent commands to move. Had she been in an accident? Was she in an ambulance now heading towards a hospital?

She frowned harder. No, that wasn't right. No ambulance would move this fast and certainly with the top missing, letting light and air and god only knew what else infuse the patient. So where…

It came back in bits and pieces. She had just told Wheelie her final goodbye, picked up her suitcase. She and Trent were leaving for good, heading back to the States to have a go at a life together. A normal life free of aliens and cars that transformed into giant robots. It was what she needed. What she wanted more than anything else.

She knew that now. She had wanted that with Sam. But Sam wasn't willing to give it all up for her.

Trent was.

It made sense to leave with him.

Only they hadn't counted on Trent's Aunt appearing suddenly, running down the hallways in a mad panic, one of her hands glowing as if she held a piece of the sun tightly in her fist. Trent had tried to flag her down, to get in her way. He'd screamed to get her attention, for all the good that would have done. Optimus Prime, himself, was already screaming to get the woman to halt. And if the huge Autobot leader could not get through to her, what made Trent think he could?

She'd put a hand on his shoulder, trying to stop him.

That was when the men appeared behind them, slapping hands over mouths and other parts of the body to gain control of them.

Mikaela had fought, kicked. She was skilled in personal protection, not to mention the years of growing up on the run with her dad. One tended to learn a lot in the way of dirty fighting when constantly trying to avoid the authorities. But it wasn't enough, not against fully trained Marines. Fully trained Marines that had obviously tired of playing with them. Especially when she caught the glimpse of a well-used stun gun in one of their hands.

After that, everything went dark.

She tried to calm the rapid beating of her heart, tried to think. What was it that Ratchet had said once that both humans and cybertronians shared in common? Ah, it was the highly developed tactile senses upon skin and armor alike. Both species could listen to their forms and assess damages without requiring a visual confirmation. Just both species tended to be blockheaded and forget that.

She tried to listen to what her body was telling her. There was pain, yes. But underneath it was the sensation of something thin but incredibly strong binding her wrists and ankles. Zip-ties most likely. Which meant she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. The better option was to lay back and pretend to still be unconscious.

"This one's awake," said the man behind her, giving her head a gentle shake. "Should we put her under again?"

A thrill of terror went through her at that.

"No, let them both wake up on their own. They'll be no trouble for us. And by the time we are in the air, it'll be too late for the others to stop us."

That thrill of terror turned into full blown panic. She knew that voice, knew who had done this to her and to Trent. Only she couldn't believe it.

"Uncle… Josh?" Trent mumbled, voice sounding slow and thick, as if he were struggling to wake.

"That's right, son," Joshua Eddard replied. "Take it easy now. We'll soon be off this cursed base. And then our plans will really take shape."

Behind the restraining hand, Mikaela screamed.

* * *

Phoenix wasn't sure what to expect when she opened her eyes again. Would she be on that stone slab again in Egypt? Would she wake to find her hand nothing more than melted bone, fused like a horror story to Jazz's unmoving chest plate? Would she even have a hand at all at this point?

Whatever it was she expected, it certainly wasn't the sound of hard core rap played at decibels that could shatter mountains. She groaned, trying to roll onto her side. If she wasn't mistaken, that was DMX's Party Up currently trying to rattle her teeth into dust. It was an odd choice of song, given that she really didn't have anything worth partying about. She'd given Jazz her all, tried so hard to bring him back. Tried to maintain that balance between human and cybertronian in her.

Tried to spare the race some bit of pain after all they had been through.

The baseline dropped again, and this time she'd had enough. "STOP!" she shrieked, the word lost beneath the music. "For the sake of my sanity, someone tell Mudflap and Skids to get the hell out of medbay please?"

"Somebody would, baby girl," a familiar voice said, amusement lacing through it. "If they were here."

Her eyes flashed opened, disbelief clear on her face. In her voice. In the energy she threw out into the air. "Jazz?"

He jumped off the medical berth, leaning in. "Surprise, sis. It's me."


End file.
